Sivut kuvina

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire ;
Hands, that the rod of empire might have fivay'd,
Or wak'd to extasy the living lyre.

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample pase
Rich with the spoils of Time did ne'er unroll;
Chill Penury repress’d their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the soul.

many a gem

a of pures ray serene,
The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear;
Fuil many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desart air.

Some village Hampulen, that with dauntlefs breast
The little Tyrant of his fields withstood;
Some mute inglorious Milton here may relt,
Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood.

Th'applause of lifl'oing senates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to despise.
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,
Andread their litt'ry in a nation's eyes,

Their lot forbad: nor circumscrib'd alone
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'di
Forbad to wade through Slaughter to a throne,
And shut the



mercy on mankind. The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, To quench the blushes of ingenuous Mame, Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride With incense kindled at the Muse's fanie.

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble ferife
Their fober wishes never learn'd to fray ;
Along the cool fequefter'd vale of life
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

Yet ev'n those bones from insult to protect
Some frail memorial still erected nigh,
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd
Implores the pafing tribute of a figh.

Their name, their years, spelt by the unletter'd Muse,
The place of fame and elegy supply:
And many a holy text around the strews,
That teach the ruftic moralift to die.

For who to dumb Forgetfulness a prey,
This pleasing anxious being e'er relign'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,
Evin in our Alhes live their wonted Fires.

For thee, who mindful of th' unhonour'd Dead
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate ;
if chance, by lonely Contemplation led,
Some kindred spirit shall enquire thy fate.

Hapiy fome hoary-headed swain may fay, • Oft have we seen him at the


of dawa Brushing with hasty steps the dews away • To meet the fun upon the upland lawn.

• There at the foot of yonder nodding beach
• That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,
• His listless length at noon-tide would he stretch,
. And

pore upon the brouk 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,

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 sad array, • Slow through the church-way path we saw him born, “Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay, • Graớd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.'

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HERE rests his head upon the lap of Earth,

A Youth to Fortune and to fame unknotun ; Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth, And Melancholy marked him for her own.

Large was his bounty, and his foul fincere,
Heav'n did a recompence as lurgely fend:
He gave to Mis'ry all he had, a teur,
He gain’d from Heav'n ('twas all he wil'd) a friends

No farther seek his merits to disclose,
Or draw his frailties from their dread alcus
(There they alike in trembling hope repose)
The bofom of his Father, and sis God.

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ORROWING, the Nine beneath yon blafted yew

Shed the bright drops of Pity's holy dew!
Mute are their tuneful tongues, extinct their fires ;
Yet not in silence sleep their silver lyres ;
To the bleak gale they vibrate fad and flow,
In deep accordance to a Nation's woe.

Ye, who ere while for Cook's illustrious brow
Pluck'd the green laurel, and the oaken bough,
Hung the gay garlands on the trophied oars,

And pour'd bis fame along a thousand shores,
Strike the flow death-bell! weave the sacred verse,
And strew the cypress o'er his honor'd hearse;

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