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. I

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, |
And all that beauty, all that wealth', e'er gave、, |
Await, alike, the inevitable hour-

1

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 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, soothe, 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 em'pire might have sway'd, | Or wak'd to ecstasy 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. I

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 rest' ; | Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood. |

a Desert air; not dez-zer-tair.

The applause of list'ning senates to command', |
The threats of pain, and ruin to despise', |
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land',

And read their hist'ry in a nation's eyes', |

Their lot forbade - nor circumscrib'd alone, |
|
Their growing virtues ; | but, their crimes' confin'd', |
Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,
And shut the gates of 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. I

1

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 e'en 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 names', their years', spell'd by the unletter'd muse',
The place of fame, and elegy, supply、; |
And many a holy text around she strews', |
That teach the rustic moralist to die. I

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, ling'ring 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 ash'es 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',

I

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say', |
"Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn',
Brushing, with hasty step, 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 noontide would he stretch', | And pore upon the brook that bubbles by. [

Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn', |

Mutt'ring his wayward fancies, he would rove'; | Now drooping, wo'ful, wan, like one forlorn', I

Or craz❜d 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 fav'rite tree; |
Another came; nor yet beside the rill',

Nor up the lawn', nor at the wood was he̟. |

The next, with dirges due, in sad array', |

Slow through 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."

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 rec'ompense as largely send.
He gave to Mis'ry all he had', a tear; |

1

He gain'd from Heav'n | (''t was 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') | 2The bosom of his Father, and his God. I

DOUGLAS'S ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF.
(HOME.)

My name is Norval; on the Grampian hills
My father feeds his flocks; a frugal swain |
Whose constant cares | were to increase his store', |
And keep his only son, myself, at home. :|
For I had heard of bat'tles, and I long'd
To follow to the field some warlike lord; |
And heaven soon granted what my sire denied! |

This moon, which rose last night, round as my shield, |
Had not yet fill'd her horns, when by her light, |
A band of fierce barbarians from the hills, I
Rush'd like a torrent down upon the vale',
Sweeping our flocks, and herds. The shepherds fled
For safety, and for succour. I, alone', |
With bended bow, and quiver full of arrows, |
Hover'd about the enemy, and mark'd
The road he took then hasted to my friends' |
Whom, with a troop of fifty chosen men,
I met advancing. The pursuit I led,
Till we o'ertook the spoil-encumber'd foe,. |

I

We fought, and conquer'd. | Ere a sword was drawn, |
An arrow from my bow had pierc'd their chief |
Who wore, that day, the arms which now I wear. ]
Returning home in triumph, I disdain'd
The shepherd's slothful life;

and, having heard |

1

That our good king had summon'd his bold peers |
To lead their warriors to the Carron side, |
I left my father's house, and took with me |
A chosen servant to conduct my steps.
'Yon trembling coward who forsook his master. I
"Journeying with this intent, | I pass'd these towers, |
And, heaven-directed, I came this day to do |
The happy deed that gilds my humble name. |

THE GRAVE OF FRANKLIN.

(MISS C. H. WATERMAN.)

No chisell❜d urn is rear'd to thee; |
No sculptur'd scroll enrolls its page |
To tell the children of the free',

Where rests the patriot, and the sage. I
Far in the city of the dead', |

A corner holds thy sacred clay; |
And pilgrim feet, by reverence led', |

Have worn a path that marks the way,. |
There, round thy lone, and simple grave', |

Encroaching on its marble gray', ]
Wild plantain weeds, and tall grass wave', |
And sunbeams pour their shadeless_ray. |
Level with earth', thy letter'd stone'-|
And hidden oft by winter's snow
Its modest record tells alone' |

Whose dust it is that sleeps below,.* |

26*

That name's enough

| that honour'd name'] No aid from eulogy requires, :| 'Tis blended with thy country's fame', I

And flashes round her lightning spires. |

BENJAMIN

AND
DEBORAH

*The body of Franklin lies in Christ-Church burying-ground, corner of Mulberry and Fifth street, Philadelphia. The inscription upon his tomb-stone is as follows:

FRANKLIN