Await alike the inevitable hour The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, If memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, Where, through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault, The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. Can storied urn or animated bust Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can honor's voice provoke the silent dust, Or flattery soothe the dull cold ear of death? Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire, But knowledge to their eyes her ample page, Chill penury repress'd their noble rage, Full many a gem of purest ray serene The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear; Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless breast, Th' applause of listening senates to command, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, And read their history in a nation's eyes, Their lot forbade; nor circumscrib'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 struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, With incense kindled at the muse's flame. Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd muse, And many a holy text around she strews, For who to dumb forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind? On some fond breast the parting soul relies, Some pious hand 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' unhonor'd dead, Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, "There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech, That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, His listless length at noontide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that bubbles by. "Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Muttering his wayward fancies, he would rove, Now drooping woful 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 favorite tree: Another came; nor yet beside the rill, Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he; "The next with dirges due, in sad array, Slow through the churchyard path we saw him borne— Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay The Epitaph. Here rests his head upon the lap of earth, Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, He gain'd from Heaven ('twas all he wish'd) a friend. 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 END. |