Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds ;
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds :
Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower,
The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of such, as wandering near her secret bower,
Molest her ancient solitary reign.

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

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleepThe breezy call of incense-breathing morn,

The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,

No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed!
For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her evening care;
No children run to lisp their sire's return,

Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share ! .

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield;

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke: How jocund did they drive their team a field!

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 simple 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 memory o'er their tombs no trophies raise,

Where, through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault, The pealing anthem swells the note of praise

Can storied urn, or animated bust,

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
Can honour's voice provoke the silent dust?
Or flattery sooth the dull cold ear of death?

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid

Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;
Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd,
Or waked to ecstacy 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 soul !
Full many a gem of purest ray serene,

The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear; Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air! Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless breast, The little tyrant of his fields withstood; Some mute inglorious Milton here may restSome Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood. The applause of listening senates 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 forbade; nor circumscribed alone

Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined— Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, And shut the gates of mercy on mankind

d;

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,
Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray;
Along the cool sequester'd vale of life

They kept the noiseless tenor of their way Yet even these bones from insult to protect, Some frail memorial, still erected nigh, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

Their name, their years, spell'd by the unletter'd muse,
The place of fame and elegy supply;

And many a holy text around she strews,
To teach the rustic moralist to die.

For who, to dumb Forgetfulness a prey,
This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd-
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind?
On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
Some pious drops the closing eye requires :
E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries,
E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires !
For thee, who, mindful of the unhonour'd dead,
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate,
If chance, by lonely contemplation led,
Some kindred spirit shall inquire 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 wreaths its old fantastic roots so high,
His listless length at noontide would he stretch,
And pore upon the brook that bubbles by.
"Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,
Muttering his wayward fancies, he would rove;
Now drooping, woful, wan, like one forlorn,

Or crazed with care, or cross'd in hopeless love!

"One morn I miss'd him on the accustom'd hill, Along the heath, and near his favourite 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, [borneSlow through the church-way path we saw him Approach, and read-for thou canst read-the lay, "Graved 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;
Heaven did a recompense as largely send,
He gave to Misery all he had—a tear:

[friend. He gain'd from Heaven-('twas all he wish'd)—a

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!

The Battle of Blenheim.

It was a summer's evening,
Old Kaspar's work was done,
And he before his cottage door
Was sitting in the sun,
And by him sported on the green
His little grandchild Wihelmine.
She saw her brother Peterkin

Roll something large and round,
Which he beside the rivulet

In playing there had found;
He came to ask what he had found,
That was so large and smooth, and round
Old Kaspar took it from the boy,

Who stood expectant by ;

And then the old man shook his head,
And with a natural sigh,

""Tis some poor fellow's scull,” said he,
"Who fell in the great victory!

"I find them in the garden,

For there's many here about;
And often when I go to plough,

The ploughshare turns them out:
For many thousand men," said he,
"Were slain in that great victory !"
"Now tell us what 'twas all about,"
Young Peterkin he cries;
And little Wihelmine looks up

With wonder-waiting eyes;

"Now tell us all about the war,

And what they kill'd each other for."

Gray.

"It was the English," Kasper cried,
"Who put the French to rout;
But what they kill'd each other for,
I could not well make out.
But every body said," quoth he,
"That 'twas a famous victory!

My father lived at Blenheim then,
Yon little stream hard by;

They burn'd his dwelling to the ground,
And he was forced to fly :

So with his wife and child he fled,

Nor had he where to rest his head!

"With fire and sword the country round
Was wasted far and wide;
And many a childing mother then,
And new-born baby died!—

But things like that, you know, must be
At every famous victory.

"They say it was a shocking sight

After the field was won;
For many thousand bodies here

Lay rotting in the sun!—

But things like that, you know, must be
After a famous victory.

"Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won,

66

And our good Prince Eugene."

Why, 'twas a very wicked thing!"

Said little Wihelmine.

"Nay-Nay-my little girl," quoth he,

"It was a famous victory!

"And every body praised the Duke
Who this great fight did win,"
"But what good came of it at last ?"
Quoth little Peterkin.

Why, that I cannot tell," said he, "But 'twas a famous victory!"

Song of Fitz Eustace.

Where shall the lover rest

Whom the Fates sever

From his true maiden's breast

Parted for ever?

Southey.