Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast Th' applause of list'ning senates to command, And read their hist'ry in a nation's eyes, Their lot forbad: nor circumscrib'd alone mercy on mankind. The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect, H Their names, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd Muse, The place of fame and elegy supply; For who to dumb forgetfulness a prey, On some fond breast the parting soul relies, For thee, who mindful of th' unhonour'd dead, If chance, by lonely contemplation led, Some kindred spirit shall enquire thy fate, Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, "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 wreathes 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 would rove; Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn, "Orcraz'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 beside the rill, Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he. "The next, with dirges due in sad array, "Slow thro' the church-yard path we saw him "borne. Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay, Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." THE EPITAPH. "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 sincere, "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." TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE EARL OF WARWICK, ON THE DEATH OF MR. ADDISON. TICKELL. IF, dumb too long, the drooping Muse hath staid, Blame not her silence, Warwick, but bemoan, Can I forget the dismal night, that gave My soul's best part for ever to the grave? How silent did his old companions tread, And sleep in peace, next thy lov'd Montague! To strew fresh laurels, let the task be mine, My lyre be broken, and untun'd my tongue, Oft let me range the gloomy aisles alone, |