POE TR Y.

ELEGY written in a COUNTRY CHURCH YARD.

[By Mr. Gray.]

HE curfew tolls the knell of parting day,

TH

The lowing herd wind flowly o'er the lea, The plowman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the fight,
And all the air a folemn ftillness holds,

Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the diftant folds :

Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower,

The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of fuch as wandering near her fecret bowér,
Moleft her ancient, folitary reign.

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

The rude Forefather's of the hamlet fleep.

The breezy call of incenfe-breathing morn,
The swallow twitt'ring from the ftraw-built shed,
The cock's fhrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
No more fhall roufe them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth fhall burn,
Or bufy housewife ply her evening care:
No children run to lifp their fire's return,

Or climb his knees the envied kifs to fhare.

Oft

Oft did the harvest to their fickle yield,

Their furrow oft the ftubborn glebe has broke ;
How jocund did they drive their team afield!
How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy ftroke!

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,

Their homely joys and defliny obfcure:
Nor grandeur hear, with a difdainful fmile,
The fhort and fimple annals of the poor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Await alike the 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,
Where through the long-drawn aifle and fretted vault,
The pealing anthem fwells the note of praife.
Can ftoried urn or animated buft

Back to its manfion call the fleeting breath?
Can Honour's voice provoke the silent duft,
Or Flattery footh the dull, cold car of Death?

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid

Some heart once pregnant with celeftial fire;
Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed,
Or waked to extafy the living lyre.

But knowledge to their eyes her ample page,
Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unrol;

Chill penury reprefsed their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the foul.

Full many a gem of pureft ray ferene,

The dark unfathoméd caves of ocean bear; Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its fweetnefs on the defart 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.

The applause of listening senates 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 circumfcribéd alone
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined;
Forbade to wade through flaughter to a throne,
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind.

The ftruggling pangs of confcious truth to hide,
To quench the blushes of ingenuous fhame,
Or heap the fhrine of luxury and pride

With incenfe kindled at the mufe's flame,

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,
Their fober wishes never learned to stray;
Along the cool, fequefteréd vale of life

They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

Yet even these bones from infult to protect
Some frail memorial ftill erected nigh,

With uncouth rhimes and fhapeless sculpture deckèd,
Implores the paffing tribute of a figh,

Their name, their years, fpelt by the unlettered mufe,
The place of fame and elegy fupply:

And many a holy text around fhe ftrews,
That teach the ruftic moralift to die.

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,

This pleafing anxious being e'er resigned? Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor caft one longing, lingering look behind ?

On

On fome fond breast the parting foul relies;
Some pious drops the clofing cye requires :
Even from the tomb the voice of nature cries,
Even in our ashes live their wonted fires.

For thee, who mindful of the unhonoured dead
Doft in thefe lines their artlefs tale relate;
If chance, by lonely contemplation led,
Some kindred spirit fhall enquire 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 so high, His liftless length at noontide would he ftretch, And pore upon the brook that bubbles by. Hard by yon wood, now fmiling as in fcorn,

Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove, Now drooping, woeful man, like one forlorn,

Or crazed with care, or crosséd in hopeless love. One morn I mifséd him on the customed 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 through the church-way path we saw him borne;
Approach and read (for thou canft read) the lay,
Graved on the fione beneath yon aged thorn."

HERE

The

EPITAPH.

ERE refts his head upon the lap of earth,
A youth to fortune and to fame unknown;
Fair fcience frowned not on his humble birth,
And melancholy marked him for her own,

Large

Large was his bounty, and his foul fincere,
Heaven did a recompenfe as largely fend:
He gave to mifery all he had, a tear;

He gained from heaven ('twas all be wifhed) a friend. No farther feek his merits' to difclofe,

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

A

The HER MIT: by Dr. Beattie.

AT the clofe of the day, when the hamlet is ftill,
And mortais the fweets of forgetfulness prove,
When nought but the torrent is heard on the hill,
And nought but the nightingale's fong in the grove:
'Twas then, by the cave of the mountain afar,

A Hermit his fong of the night thus began;
No more with himfelf or with nature at war,
He thought as a Sage, while he felt as a Man.

Ah, why thus abandoned to darkness and woe,
Why thus lonely Philomel, flows thy fad train!
For Spring fhall return, and a lover bestow,

And thy bofom no trace of misfortune retain. Yet, if pity infpire thee, ah cease not thy lay,

Mourn, fweetest Complainer, Man calls thee to mourn :
O foothe him, whofe pleafures like thine pass away-
Full quickly they pass,-but they never return.

"Now gliding remote, on the verge of the sky,
The Moon half extinguifhed her crefcent difplays:
But lately I marked, when majestic on high

She fhone, and the planets were loft in her blaze.
Roll on, thou fair orb, and with gladness pursue
The path that conducts thee to fplendor again.-
But Man's faded glory no change fhall renew;
Ah fool, to exult in a glory so vain!

" 'Tis