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The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,

The swallow, twitt'ring from the straw-built shed, The cock's fhrill clarion, or the echoing horn,

No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. For them 110 more the blazing hearth shall burn,

Or bufy' housewife ply her' evening care : Nor children run to lisp their fire's return,

Or' climb his knees the envied kiss to share. Oft did the harvest to their fickle yield,

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has brokes 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 obscure ; Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile,

The short and fimple annals of the poor. The boat of heraldry, the pomp of pow's,

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 ille and fretted vault,

The pealing anthem fwells the note of praise. Can storied urn, or animated bust,

Back to its manfion call the fleeting breath?
Can Honoar's voice provoke the filent duft,

Dr Flatt’ry soothe the dull cold ear of death ?
Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire :

Hands,

Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd,

Or wak'd to extasy the living lyre.
But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page,

Rich with the spoils of Time, did ne'er unroll; Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage,

And froze the genial current of the foul. Full many a gem, of purest ray ferene,

The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear ; Full many a flow'r is born to blush unseen,

And waste its sweetness on the desert air. Some village-Hampden, that, with dauntless breaft,

The little tyrant of his fields with tood; Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest ;

Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood. Th' applause of liftning 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 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 bluthes of ingenuous shame, Or heap the fhrine of Luxury and Pride

With incense, kindled at the muse's fame.
Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,

Their fober wishes never learn'd to stray s
Along the cool, fequeter'd vale of life,
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect,

Some frail memorial ftill erected nigh, With uncouth rhimes and shapeless fculpture deck'd,

Implores the pafling tribute of a figh. Their

name, their years, spelt by th’unletter'd muse, The place of fame and elegy supply: And many a holy text around the strews,

That teach the rustic moralift to dye. For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,

This pleafing anxious being e'er refign'd, Left the warm precincts of the chearful day,

Nor cast one longing, ling'ring, look behind ? On some fond breast the parting foul 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,

Doft in these lines their artless tale relate ;
If, chance, by lonely Contemplation led,

Some kindred fpirit shall inquire thy fate, Haply some hoary-headed fwain may fay, " 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 wriths 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, Mutt’ring his wayward fancies, he wou'd rove ;

Now

Now drooping, woeful 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 fav’rite tree;
Another came ; nor yet beside the rill,
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'st read) the lay,

Gray'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.”

Τ Η Ε Ε Ρ Ι Τ Α Ρ Η.

Here rests 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 soul fincere,

Heav'n did a recompence as largely send : He gave to mis’ry all he had, a tear;

He gain'd from Heav'n ('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.

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