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With uncouth rhymes and fhapeless feulpture deck'd, Implores the paffing tribute of a figh.

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Their name, their years, fpelt by th' unletter'd muse,
The place of fame and, elegy fupply:
And many a holy text around the 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 cheerful day,
Nor caft one longing, lingering 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 afhes live their wonted fires.
For thee, who mindful of th' unhonour'd dead,
Doft in thefe lines their artless tale relate;
If, chance, by lonely contemplation led,

Some kindred fpirit fhall inquire thy fate,
Haply fome hoary-headed fwain may fay,
"Oft have we feen him at the peep of dawn,
Brushing, with hafty fteps, 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 liftlefs length at noon-tide would he stretch,..
And pour upon the brook that bubbles by.`
Hard by yon wood, now fmiling, as in fcorn,
Mutt'ring his wayward fancies he would rove:
Now drooping woful, wan, like one forlorn,

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Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless love. One morn I miss'd him on th' accustom'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-yard path we faw him borne : Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay, Grav'd on the tone beneath yon aged thorn :”

THE EPITAPH.

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.

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Large was his bounty, and his foul fincere,

Heav'n did a recompenfe as largely tend : He gave to Mitery all he had, a tear;

He gain'd from Heav'n ('twas all he wifh'd) a friend. No farther feek his merits to disclose,

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

SECTION III.

The deferted village.

GRAY.

SWEET Auburn! lovelieft village of the plain,
Where health and plenty cheer'd the lab'ring fwain :
Where fmiling fpring its earlieft vifits paid,
And parting fummer's ling'ring blooms delay'd :
Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease,
Seats of my youth, when every sport could please,
How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green,
Where humble happiness endear'd each scene!
How often have I paus'd on every charm,
The fhelter'd cot, the cultivated farm,
The never-failing brook, the bufy mill,

The decent church that topp'd the neighb'ring hill,
The hawthorn bufh, with feats beneath the fhade,
For talking age and youthful converfe made!
How often have I bleft the coming day,
When toil remitting lent its turn to play;
And all the village train from labour free,
Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree;
While many a paftime circled in the fhade,
The young contending as the old furvey'd ;
And many a gambol frolick'd o'er the ground,
And fleights of art and feats of strength went round.
These were thy charms, fweet village! fports like thefe,
With sweet fucceffion, taught e'en toil to pleafe;

These round thy bow'rs their cheerful influence shed;
These were thy charms, but all these charms are fled.
Sweet fmiling village! lovelieft of the lawn,

Thy fports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn ;
Amidst thy bow'rs the tyrant's hand is feen,
And defolation faddens all thy green :
One only mafter grafps the whole domain,
And half a tillage ftints thy fmiling plain.
No more thy glaffy brook reflects the day,
But, chok'd with fedges, works its weedy way;

Along thy glades, a folitary guest,

The hollow-founding bittern guard its neft;
Amidst thy defert walks, the lapwing flies,
And tires their echoes with unvaried cries.
Sunk are thy bow'rs in fhapeless ruin all,
And the long grafs o'ertops the mould'ring wall;
And trembling, fhrinking from the spoiler's hand,
Far, far away thy children leave the land.

Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey,
Where wealth accumulates, and men decay.
Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade ;
A breath can make them, as a breath has made;
But a bold peafantry, their country's pride,
When once destroy'd, can never be fupply'd.
A time there was, ere England's griefs began,
When every rood of ground maintain'd its man;
For him light labour spread her wholesome store
Juft gave what life requir'd, but gave no more:
His best companions, innocence and health;
And his best riches, ignorance of wealth.

But times are alter'd: trade's unfeeling train
Ufurp the land, and difpoffefs the fwain.
Along the lawn, where fcatter'd hamlets rofe,
Unwieldy wealth and cumb'rous pomp repofe ;
And every want to luxury allied,

And every pang that folly pays to pride.
Thofe gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom,
Thofe calm defires that afk'd but little room.
Those healthful fports that grac'd the peaceful scene,
Liv'd in each look, and brighten'd all the green-
Thefe, far departing, seek a kinder shore,
And rural mirth and manners are no more.
Sweet Auburn! parent of the blifsful hour,
Thy glades forlorn confefs the tyrant's power.
Here, as I take my folitary rounds,

Amidst thy tangling walks, and ruin'd grounds;
And, many a year elaps'd, return to view

Where once the cottage ftood, the hawthorn grew:
Remembrance wakes with all her busy train,
Swells at my breast, and turns the paft to pain.

In all my wand'rings round this world of care,
In all my griefs-and God has giv'n my share----
I ftill had hopes, my latest hours to crown,
Amidit thefe humble bowers to lay me down;

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To husband out life's taper at the close,
And keep the flame from wafting, by repofe :
I ftill had hopes, for pride attends us ftill,
Amidft the fwains to fhow my book-learn'd skill:
Around my fire an evening group to draw,
And tell of all I felt, and all I faw :

And as a hare, whom hounds and horns purfue,
Pants to the place from whence at firft he flew,
I still had hopes, my long vexations past,
Here to return-and die at home at last.

O bleft retirement, friend to life's decline,
Retreat from care, that never must be mine!
How bleft is he, who crowns, in fhades like these,
A youth of labour with an age of ease ;

Who quits a world where ftrong temptations try,
And, fince 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly !:
For him no wretches, born to work and weep,
Explore the mine, or tempt the dang'rous deep;
No furly porter ftands in guilty ftate,

To fpurn imploring famine from the gate;
But on he moves to meet his latter end,
Angels around befriending virtue's friend;
Sinks to the grave with unperceiv'd decay,
While refignation gently flopes the way:
And all his profpects bright'ning to the laft,
His heaven commences ere the world be past!
Sweet was the found, when oft at evening's close,
Up yonder hill the village murmur rofe;
There as I pafs'd with careless steps and flow,
The mingling notes came foften'd from below;
The fwain, refponfive as the milk-maid fung,
The fober herd that low'd to meet their young,
The noify geefe that gabbled o'er the pool,
The playful children just let loose from school,

The watch-dog's voice that bay'd the whifpering wind,
And the loud laugh, that spoke the vacant mind;
These all in fweet confufion fought the shade,
And fill'd each paufe the nightingale had made.
But now the founds of population fail,
No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale,
No buty steps the grafs-grown footway tread,
But all the blooming flush of life is fled :
All but yon widow'd folitary thing,
That feebly bends befide the plashy fpring;

She, wretched matron! forc'd in age, for bread,
To ftrip the brook with mantling creffes fpread,
To pick her wintry fagot from the thorn,
To feek her nightly fhed, and weep till morn;
She only left of all the harmless train,
The fad hiftorian of the penfive plain !

Near yonder copfe, where once the garden fmil'd,
And still where many a garden flower grows wild,
There where a few torn fhrubs the place difclofe,
The village preacher's modeft mansion rofe.
A man he was, to all the country dear,
And paffing rich with forty pounds a year :
Remote from towns he ran his godly race,
Nor e'er had chang'd, nor wifh'd to change his place.
Unfkillful he to fawn or seek for power,

By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour;
Far other aims his heart had learn'd to prize,
More bent to raise the wretched than to rise.
His houfe was known to all the vagrant train ;
He chid their wanderings, but reliev'd their pain.
The long remember'd beggar was his guest,
Whofe beard defcending fwept his aged breast;
The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud,
Claim'd kindred there, and had his claims allow'd :
The broken foldier kindly bade to ftay,

Sat by his fire, and talk'd the night away;

Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of forrow done,
Shoulder'd his crutch, and show'd how fields were won.
Pleas'd with his guefts, the good man learn'd to glow,
And quite forgot their vices in their wo:
Careless their merits or their faults to scan,`
His pity gave ere charity began.

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride,
And e'en his failings lean'd to virtue's fide:
But, in his duty prompt at every call,

He watch'd and wept, he pray'd and felt for all :
And, as a bird each fond endearment tries,
To tempt her new-fledg'd offspring to the fkies;
He tried each art, reprov'd each dull delay,
Allur'd to brighter worlds, and led the way.

Befide the bed, where parting life was laid,
And forrow, guilt, and pain, by turns difmay'd,
The rev'rend champion stood. At his control
Despair and anguish fled the struggling foul;

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