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Beneath thofe rugged elms, that yew-tree's fhade, Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

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 fhall rouse them from their lowly bed.
For them no more the blazing hearth fhall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her ev'ning care:
Nor children run to lifp their fire's return,
Or climb his knees the envied kifs to share.

Oft did the harvest to Their fickle yield;

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; How jocund did they drive their teams afield! How how'd the woods beneath their sturdy ftroke! Let not ambition mock their useful toil,

Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor grandeur hear with a difdainful smile
The short and fimple annals of the poor.

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 raife,
Were through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault,
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

Can ftoried urn, or animated buft,

Back to its manfion call the fleeting breath?

Can Honour's voice provoke the filent dust,
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 ecftafy 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 flow'r is born to blufh unfeen, And wafte its sweetness on the defert air.

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Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breaft
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 fcatter plenty o'er a fmiling land,

And read their hift'ry in a nation's eyes.

Their lot forbade; nor circumfcrib'd alone

Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd; Forbade to wade through flaughter to a throne, And fhut the gates of mercy on mankind : The ftrugling 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 stray;
Along the cool fequefter'd vale of life

They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.
Yet e'en these bones from infult to protect,
Some frail memorial ftill erected nigh,

With uncouth rhimes and shapeless sculpture deck'd, Implores the paffing tribute of a figh.

Their names, their years, fpelt by the unletter'd Mufe,
The place of Fame and Elegy fupply:

And many a holy text around she strews,
That teach the ruftic moralift to die.

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,

This pleafing anxious being e'er resign'd, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor caft one longing, ling'ring look behind? On fome fond breast the parting foul relies,

Some pious drops the clofing eye requires ; E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.

For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead, Doft in these lines their artlefs tale relate, If, chance, by lonely contemplation led, Some kindred 'fpirit fhall inquire thy fate; Haply fome hoary-headed fwain may say, "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 bubbles by. "Hard by yon wood, now smiling, as in fcorn,

"Mutt'ring his wayward fancies, he would rove; "Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn,

"Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless love, One morn I mifs'd him on the custom'd hili, "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 sad array,


"Slow through the church-yard path we saw him "Approach, and read (for thou canst 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 mark'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 wish'd) a Friend.

No further feek his merits to disclose,

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, (There they alike in trembling hope repose) The bofom of his Father and his God.



I. 1.

AWAKE, Æolian lyre, awake,

And give to Rapture all thy trembling Arings!
From Helicon's harmonious fprings

A thousand rills their mazy progrefs take:
The laughing flow'rs, that round them blow,
Drink life and fragrance as they flow.

Now the rich ftream of mufic winds along,

Deep, majestic, fmooth, and strong,

Thro' verdant vales, and Ceres' golden reign:

Now rolling down the steep amain,

Headlong, impetuous, fee it pour :

The rocks and nodding groves re-bellow to the roar.

I. 2.

Oh! fovereign of the willing foul,

Parent of sweet and folemn-breathing airs,
Enchanting shell! the fullen Cares,

And frantic Paffions, hear thy foft controul.
On Thracia's hills the Lord of War

Has curb'd the fury of his car,

And dropp'd his thirsty lance at thy command.
Perching on the fceptred hand

Of Jove, thy magic lulls the feather'd king
With ruffled plumes, and flagging wing:
Quench'd in dark clouds of flumber lie

The terror of his beak, and lightning of his eye.

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