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The breczy call of incense-breathing Morni,
The swallow twitt’ring from the straw-built shed,
The cock's shrill clarion, or the ecchoing horn,
No more shall rouse them from their lowly będ.
For them no more the blazing hearth fhall burn,
Or busy houswife ply her evening care:
No children run to lisp their fire's return,
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.
Oft did the harvest to their fickle yield,
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke;
How jocund did they drive their team afield!
How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!
Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile,
The short and fimple annals of the
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Await alike th' inevitable hour.
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
Nor you, ye Proud, impute to These the fault,
If Mem'ry o’er their Tomb nọ Trophies raise,
Where thro' the long-drawn isle and fretted vault
The pealing anthem (wells the note of praise.
Can Itoried urn or animated bust
Back to its manfion call the fleeting breath ?
Can Honour's voice provoke the filent duft,
Or Flatt'ry footh the dull cold ear of Death?
Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire ;
Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd,
Or wak'd to extasy the living lyre. .
But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page
Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll ;
Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the soul.
Full many a gem of purest ray serene,
The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear;
Full many a lower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetnefs on the desert air.
Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast
The little Tyrant of his fields withstood;
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,
Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood.
Th’applause of lif’ning fenates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,
And read their hift'ry in a pation's eyes
Their lot forbad: nor circumscrib'd alonę
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd;
Forbad to wade through slaughter to a throne,
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind,
The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,
Or heåp the shrine of Luxury and Pride
With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.
Far from the madding crowd's ignoble ftrife,
Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray;
Along the cool sequester'd vale of life
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.
Yet ev’n these bones from insult to protect
Some frail memorial ftill erected nigh,
With uncouth rhimes and shapeless sculpture deck'd,
Implores the passing tribute of a figh.
Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd Muse,
The place of fame and elegy supply:
And many a holy text around the strews,
That teach the rustic moralift to dye.
For who to dumb Forgetfulness a prey,
This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd,
Left the warm precincts of the chearful day,
Nor cast one longing ling'ring look behind ?
On some fond breast the parting foul relies,
Some pious drops the closing eye requires ;
Ev’n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,
Ev'n in our Alhes live their wonted Fires.
For thee, who mindful of th’unhonour'd Dead
Doft in these lines their artless tale relate ;
If chance, by lonely Contemplation led,
Some kindred Spirit shall inquire thy fate,
Haply some hoary-headed Swain may fay, « Oft have we seen him at the
of dawn Brushing with hafty steps the dews away • To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.
« There at the foot of yonder nodding beech
• That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,
• His listless length at noon-tide wou'd he stretch,
. And pore upon the brook that babbles by.
• Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,
• Mutt'ring his wayward fancies he wou'd rove;
• Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn,
• Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless love,
One morn I miss’d him on the custom'd hill,
Along the heath and near his fav’rite tree: • Another came ; nor yet beside the rill, * Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he,
« The next with dirges due in fad array
• Slow through the church-way path we saw him born,
« Approach and read (for thou can'It read) the lay,
* Gray'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.
HERE refts his head upon the lap of Earth
A Youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown,
Fair Science frown'd not ox his humble birth,
And Melancholy mark'd bim for her own.
Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,
Heav'n did a recompence as largely fend:
He gave to Mis'ry all be bad, a tear,
He gair'd from Heav'n ('twas all he wil'd) a friend.
No farther seek bis merits to disclose,
Or draw bis frailties from their dread abode,
(There they alike in trembling hope repose)
The bofom of his father and his God.