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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 list'ning senates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,
And read their histry in a nation's eyes, Their lot forbad: nor circumscrib'd alone
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 heap the shrine of luxury and pride
With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.
Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,
Their sober wishes never learnt to stray; Along the cool sequester'd vale of life
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. -Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect,
Some frail memorial still erected nigh, (deck'a, With uncouth' rhymes and shapeless sculpture
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
Their names, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd
That teach the rustic moralist to die.
For who to dumb forgetfulness a prey,
This pleasing anxious being e'er resignd, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
Nor cast one longing ling’ring look behind?
On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
Some pious drops the closing eye requires, Ev’n from the tomb the voice of nature cries,
Ev'n in our ashes live their wonted fires.
For thee, who mindful of th' unhonour'd dead,
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate; If chance, by lonely contemplation led,
Some kindred spirit shall enquire thy fate, Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,
" Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn, Brushing with hasty 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 would he stretch,
And pore upon the brook that babbles by.
“ Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,
“ Muttring his wayward fancies, he would rove; * Now drooping, woeful wan, like
forlorn, " Orcraz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless love.
“ One morn I miss'd him on th' accustom'd hill,
Along the heath, and near his fav’rite tree;
the lawn, nor at the wood was he.
“ The next, with dirges due in sad array,
“ A youth to fortune and to fame unknown;
“ And melancholy mark'd him for her own.
“ Heav'n did a recompence as largely send:
“ No farther seek his merits to disclose,
“ Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, (There they alike in trembling hope repose)
The bosom of his Father and his God."
THE EARL OF WARJVICK,
ON THE DEATH OF MR. ADDISON.
IF, dumb too long, the drooping Muse hath staid,
Can I forget the dismal night, that gave My soul's best part for ever to the grave?
How silent did his old companions tread,
To strew fresh laurels, let the task be mine,
Oft let me range the gloomy aisles alone,