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"THE PATHS OF GLORY LEAD BUT TO THE GRAVE." – Page 61.

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shame,

How jocund did they drive their team Some mute, inglorious Milton here may afield!

rest; How bowed the woods beneath their Some Cromwell, guiltless of his counsturdy stroke!

try's blood. Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, The applause of listening senates to comTheir homely joys, and destiny obscure;

mand, Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful The threats of pain and ruin to despise, smile

To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, The short and simple annals of the poor. And read their history in a nation's eyes, The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, Their lot forbade: nor circumscribed And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er

alone gave,

Their growing virtues, but their crimes Await alike the inevitable hour;

confined ; The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Forbade to wade through slaughter to a

throne, Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the And shut the gates of mercy on mankind;

fault, If memory o'er their tomb no trophies The struggling pangs of conscious truth raise,

to hide, Where through the long-drawn aisle and To quench the blushes of ingenuous

fretted vault The pealing anthem swells the note of Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride praise.

With incense kindled at the Muse's

flame. Can storied urn or animated bust Back to its mansion call the fleeting

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble

strife breath? Can Honor's voice provoke the silent dust, Their sober wishes never learned to stray; Or Flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of Along the cool, sequestered vale of life Death?

They kept the noiseless tenor of their

way. Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid

Yet even these bones from insult to proSome heart once pregnant with celestial

tect, fire; Hands that the rod of empire might have With uncouth rhymes and shapeless

Some frail memorial still erected nigh, swayed, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre :

sculpture deckel,

Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. But Knowledge to their eyes her ample Their name, their years, spelt by the

page, Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er the place of fame and elegy supply;

unlettered Muse, unroll;

And many a holy text around she strews, Chill Penury repressed their noble rage, That teach the rustic moralist to die. And froze the genial current of the soul.

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, Full many a gem of purest ray serene

This pleasing, anxious being e'erresignedl, The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean Left the warm precincts of the cheerful bear;

day, Full many a flower is born to blush un. Vor cast one longing, lingering look beseen,

hind ? And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

On some fond breast the parting soul Some village Hampden, that with daunt relies, less breast

Some pious drops the closing eye reThe little tyrant of his fields withstood; quires;

E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature Fair Science frowned not on his humble cries,

birth, E’en in our ashes live their wonted fires. And Melancholy marked him for her own. For thee, who, mindful of the unhon- Large was his bounty, and his soul sin. ored dead,

cere; Dost in these lines their artless tale re- Heaven did a recompense as largely send: late;

He gave to Misery (all he had) a tear; If chance, by lonely contemplation led, He gained from Heaven ('t was all he Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy wished) a friend. fate,

No further seek his merits to disclose, Haply some hoary-headed swain may say: Or draw his frailties from their dread “Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn, abode; Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, (There they alike in trembling hope reTo meet the sun upon the upland lawn; pose,)

The bosom of his Father and his God. “There at the foot of yonder nodding

beech, That wreathes its old, fantastic roots so high,

ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF His listless length at noontide would he

ETON COLLEGE. stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles Ye distant spires, ye antique towers, by.

That crown the watery glade,

Where grateful Science still adores “Hard hy yon wood, now smiling as in Her Henry's holy shade; scorn,

And ye, that from the stately brow Muttering his wayward fancies, he would Of Windsor's heights the expanse below

Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey; Now drooping, woful-wan, like one for Whose turf, whose shade, whose flow. lorn,

ers among Or crazed with care, or crossed in hope Wanders the hoary Thames along less love.

His silver-winding way! “One morn I missed him on the cus- Ah, happy hills ! ah, pleasing shade! tomed hill,

Ah, fields beloved in vain ! Along the heuth, and near his favorite Where once my careless childhood strayed, tree;

A stranger yet to pain :
Another came, - nor yet beside the rill, I feel the gales that from ye blow
Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was A momentary bliss bestow,

As, waving fresh their gladsome wing,

My weary soul they seem to soothe, "The next, with dirges due, in sad array,

And, redolent of joy and youth, Slow through the church-way path we To breathe a second spring.

saw him borne; Approach and read (for thou canst read) Say, Father Thames, for thou hast seen the lay

Full many a sprightly race, Graved on the stone beneath yon aged Disporting on thy margent green, thorn."

The paths of pleasure trace,

Who foremost now delight to cleave
THE EPITAPH.

With pliant arm thy glassy wave?

The captive linnet which inthrall ? Here rests his head upon the lap of earth, What idle progeny succeed A youth to fortune and to fame un. To chase the rolling circle's speed, known;

Or urge the flying balí ?

rove;

he;

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While some, on earnest business bent, Lo! in the vale of years beneath
Their murmuring labors ply

A grisly troop are seen,
'Gainst graver hours, that bring constraint The painful family of Death,
To sweeten liberty,

More hideous than their queen: Some bold adventurers disdain

This racks the joints, this fires the veins, The limits of their little reign,

That every laboring sinew strains,
And unknown regions dare descry: Those in the deeper vitals rage:

Still as they run, they look behind; Lo! Poverty, to fill the band,
They hear a voice in every wind,

That numbs the soul with icy hand; And snatch a fearful joy.

And slow-consuming Age. Gay hope is theirs, by fancy fed,

To each his sufferings : all are men, Less pleasing when possessed;

Condemned alike to groan; The tear forgot as soon as shed,

The tender for another's pain, The sunshine of the breast.

The unfeeling for his own. Theirs buxom health of rosy hue,

Yet, ah! why should they know their Wild wit, invention ever new,

fate, And lively cheer of vigor born;

Since sorrow never comes too late, The thonghtless day, the easy night,

And happiness too swiftly flies ! The spirits pure, the slumbers light, Thought would destroy their paradise. That fly the approach of morn.

No more; where ignorance is bliss,

'T is folly to be wise. Alas! regardless of their doom,

The little vietims play;
No sense have they of ills to come,

Nor care beyond to-day;
Yet see how all around them wait

WILLIAM COLLINS.
The ministers of human fate,
And black Misfortune's baleful train.

[1720-1756.)
Ah! show them where in ambush
stand,

DIRGE IN CYMBELINE. To seize their prey, the murtherous handl;

To fair Fidele's grassy tomb Ah, tell them they are men !

Soft maids and village hinds shall bring

Each opening sweet of earliest bloom, These shall the fury passions tear,

And ritle all the breathing spring.
The vultures of the mind,
Disulainful Anger, pallid Fear,

No wailing ghost shall dare appear
And Shame, that skulks behind;

To vex with shrieks this quiet grove; Or pining Love shall waste their youth, But shepherd lads assemble here, Or Jealousy with rankling tooth,

And melting virgins own their love. That inly gnaws the secret heart;

And Envy wan, and faded Care, No withered witch shall here be seen,

Grim-visagel, comfortless Despair, No goblins lead their nightly crew; And Sorrow's piercing dart.

But female favs shall haunt the green,

And dress ihy grave with pearly dew. Ambition this shall tempt to rise,

Then whirl the wretch from high, The redbreast oft at evening hours To bitter Scorn a sacrifice,

Shall kindly lend his little aid, And grinning Infamy.

With hoary moss and gathered flowers The stings of Falsehood those shall try, Todeck the ground where thou art laid. Aud hard Onkindness' altered eye, That morks the tear it forced to How; When howling winds and beating rain

And keen Remorse with blood defiled, In tempest shake the sylvan cell,

And moody Madness laughing wild Or midst the chase upon the plain, Amid severest woe.

The tender thonght on thee shall dwell.

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