The breezy call of incenfe-breathing morn,

The swallow, twitt'ring from the ftraw-built fhed, The cock's farill clarion, or the echoing horn,

No more fhall rouse them from their lowly bed. For them no more the blazing hearth fhall burn, Or bufy housewife ply her evening care: Nor children run to lifp their fire's return,

Or climb his knees the envied kifs to fhare. Oft did the harvest to their fickle yield,

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke How jocund did they drive their team afield! How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! Let not ambition mock their useful toil,

Their homely joys, and destiny obfcure;
Nor grandeur hear with a difdainful smile,

The fhort and fimple annals of the poor.
The boat of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Await, alike th' inevitable hour:

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
Nor you, ye proud, impute to thefe the fault,
If Mem'ry o'er their tomb no trophies raife,
Where, thro' the long-drawn ifle and fretted vault,
The pealing anthem fwells the note of praise.
Can ftoried urn, or animated buft,

Back to its manfion call the fleeting breath?
Can Honour's voice provoke the filent duft,
Or Flatt'ry soothe the dull cold ear of death ?
Perhaps in this neglected fpot is laid

Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire:

Hands,

Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd,

Or wak'd to extafy the living lyre.

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page, Rich with the spoils of Time, did ne'er unroll Chill Penury reprefs'd their noble rage,

And froze the genial current of the soul. Full many a gem, of pureft ray ferene,

The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear; Full many a flow'r is born to blush unseen, And wafte its sweetness on the defert 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. Th' applaufe of lift'ning fenates to command, The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To fcatter plenty o'er a fmiling land,

And read their history in a nation's eyes, Their lot forbad: nor circumfcrib'd alone

Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd;
Forbad 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 learn'd to stray;
Along the cool, fequefter'd vale of life,
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.
D 4

Yet

Yet ev❜n these bones from infult to protect,

Some frail memorial still erected nigh,

With uncouth rhimes and shapeless fculpture deck'd,
Implores the paffing tribute of a figh.

Their name, their years, fpelt by th' unletter'd muse,
The place of fame and elegy fupply:
And many a holy text around she strews,
That teach the ruftic moralift to dye.
For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,

This pleafing anxious being e'er refign'd,
Left the warm precincts of the chearful day,
Nor caft one longing, ling'ring, look behind ?
On fome fond breast the parting foul relies,

Some pious drops the clofing eye requires :
Ev'n from the tomb the voice of nature cries,
Ev'n in our afhes live their wonted fires.
For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead,
Doft in thefe lines their artlefs tale relate;
If, chance, by lonely Contemplation led,
Some kindred spirit fhall inquire thy fate,
Haply fome hoary-headed swain may say,
"Oft have we feen him, at the peep of dawn,
Brufhing, with hafty steps, the dews away,
To meet the fun upon the upland lawn.
There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech,
That wriths its old fantastic roots so high,
His liftlefs length at noon-tide would he stretch,
And pore upon the brook that babbles by.
Hard by yon wood, now fmiling, as in fcorn,
Mutt'ring his wayward fancies, he wou'd rove;

Now

Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn,
Or craz'd with care, or crofs'd in hopeless love.
One morn I miss'd him on the 'cuftom'd 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 thro' the church-yard path we saw him borne. Approach and read (for thou can't read) the lay, Grav'd on the ftone beneath yon aged thorn."

THE EPITAPH.

Here refts 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 foul fincere,
Heav'n did a recompence as largely fend:
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 feek his merits to disclose,

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