The breezy call of incenfe-breathing morn, The swallow, twitt'ring from the ftraw-built fhed, The cock's farill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more fhall rouse them from their lowly bed. For them no more the blazing hearth fhall burn, Or bufy housewife ply her evening care: Nor children run to lifp their fire's return, Or climb his knees the envied kifs to fhare. 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 obfcure; The fhort and fimple annals of the poor. The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Back to its manfion call the fleeting breath? Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire: Hands, 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 soul. Full many a gem, of pureft ray ferene, The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear; Full many a flow'r is born to blush unseen, And wafte its sweetness on the defert air. Some village-Hampden, that, with dauntless breaft, The little tyrant of his fields withstood; Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest; Some Cromwell guiltlefs of his country's blood. Th' applaufe 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 history in a nation's eyes, Their lot forbad: nor circumfcrib'd alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd; With incenfe, kindled at the mufe's flame. Yet Yet ev❜n these bones from infult to protect, Some frail memorial still erected nigh, With uncouth rhimes and shapeless fculpture deck'd, Their name, their years, fpelt by th' unletter'd muse, This pleafing anxious being e'er refign'd, Some pious drops the clofing eye requires : Now Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn, Along the heath, and near his fav'rite tree: Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he. The next, with dirges due, in fad array, Slow thro' the church-yard path we saw him borne. Approach and read (for thou can't read) the lay, Grav'd on the ftone beneath yon aged thorn." THE EPITAPH. Here refts his head upon the lap of earth, He gain'd from Heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) a friend. No farther 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. |