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The breezy call of incenfe-breathing morn,
The swallow, twitt'ring from the ftraw-built fhed,
The cock's fhrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
No more shall roufe them from their lowly bed.
For them, no more, the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or bufy housewife ply her even care;
No children run, to lifp their fire's return,
Or climb his knees, the envied kiss to share.
Oft did the harveft to their fickle yield;
Their furrow, oft, the ftubborn glebe has broke:
How jocund did they drive their team afield!
How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy ftroke! /
Let not ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and deftiny obfcure;
Nor grandeur hear, with a difdainful fmile,
The fhort, 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, no trophies raise,
Where, thro' the long-drawn ifle and fretted vault,
The pealing anthem fwells the note of praife.
Can ftoried 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 fpot, is laid
Some heart, once pregnant with celestial fire ;
Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd,
Or wak'd to extafy the living lyre.
But knowledge, to their eyes, her ample page,
Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll
Chill penury reprefs'd their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the foul.
Full many a gem of pureft ray ferene,
The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear:
Full many a flower is born, to blush unfeen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.
Some village-Hampden, that, with dauntless breast,
The little tyrant of his fields withstood:
Some mute inglorious Milton, here may reft;
Some Cromwell, guiltlefs of his country's blood.
Th' applause of lift'ning fenates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,
And read their history in a nation's eyes,
Their lot forbade: nor circumfcrib'd alone
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd;
Forbade to wade, through slaughter, to a throne,
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind;
The ftruggling pangs of confcious truth to hide ;
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame;
Or heap the fhrine of luxury and pride,
With incenfe, kindled at the mufe's flame.
Far from the madding crowd's ignoble ftrife,
Their fober wishes never learn'd to ftray;
Along the cool fequefter'd vale of life
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.
Yet, ev'n these bones, from infult to protect,
Some frail memorial, ftill erected nigh,
With uncouth rhimes and shapeless fculpture deck d,
Implores the paffing tribute of a figh.
Their name, their years, fpelt by th' unletter'd mufe,
The place of fame and elegy fupply;
And many a holy text around fhe ftrews,
That teach the ruftic moralift to die.
For, who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,
This pleafing anxious being e'er refign'd,
Left the warm precincts of the chearful day,
Nor caft one longing ling'ring look behind?
On fome fond breast, the parting foul relies;
Some pious drops the clofing 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,
Doft, in these lines, their artless tale relate,
If chance, by lonely contemplation led,
Some kindred spirit fhall inquire thy fate,
Haply, fome hoary-headed fwain may fay-
Oft have we feen him, at the peep of dawn,
• Brushing, with hafty steps, the dews away,
To meet the fun upon the upland lawn.
There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech,
'That wreathes its old fantastic roots fo high,
His liftless length at noontide would he stretch,
And pore upon the brook that babbles by.
Hard by yon wood, now fmilling as in fcorn,
Mutt'ring his wayward fancies, he would rove;
Now drooping, woful wan, like one forlorn,
• Or craz❜d with care, or crofs'd in hopeless love.
One morn, I mifs'd him on the 'cuftom'd hill.
Along the heath, and near his fav'rite tree.
Another came; nor, yet, befide the rill,
Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood, was he.
• The next, with dirges due, in fad array,
'Slow thro' the church-way path, we faw him borne-
Aproach and read (for thou can't read) the lay,
'Grav'd on the ftone, 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 on his humble birth,
And melancholy maik'd him for her own.
Large was his bounty, and his foul fincere :
Heav'n did a recompenfe as largely fend.
He gave to mis'ry all he had-a tear;
He gain'd from heav'n ('twas all he wifl'd)-a friend.
No farther feek his merits to difclose,
Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,
(There they, alike, in trembling hope repofe)
The bofom of his father and his God.
HESE are thy glorious works, Parent of good!
Almighty thine this univerfal frame,
Thus wondrous fair: thy felf, how wondrous, then,
Unfpeakable! who fit'st above these heavens,
To us invifible, or dimly feen
In these thy loweft works; yet these declare
Thy goodness beyond thought, and power divine.-
Speak, ye, who beft can tell, ye fons of light,
Angels! for ye behold him, and, with fongs
And choral fymphonies, day without night,
Circle his throne, rejoicing. Ye in heaven !—
On earth, join, all ye creatures, to extol
Him, first, him laft, him midft, and without end.
Fairest of ftars! laft in the train of night,
If better thou belong not to the dawn,
Sure pledge of day, that crown'ft the fmiling morn
With thy bright circlet, praife him in thy fphere,
While day arifes, that fweet hour of prime.
Thou, fun! of this great world both eye and foul,
Acknowledge him thy greater found his praise
In thy eternal courfe, both when thou climb'ft,
And when high noon haft gain'd, and when thou fall'st.
Moon! that now meet'ft the orient fun, now fly'ft
With the fix'd ftars, fix'd in their orb that flies;
And ye five other wand'ring fires! that move
In myftic dance, not without fong; refound
His praife, who out of darknefs, call'd up light.
Air, and ye elements the eldest birth
Of nature's womb, that, in quaternion, run