AN E LEG Y, WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD. By Mr. GRAY. The church yard, abounds with images, which find a mirror in every mind: and with fentiments, to which every bofom returns an echo. DR. JOHNSON. TH HE curfew tolls the knell of parting day, Now fades the glimmering landscape on the fight, An evening bell, appointed by William the Conqueror, to remind people to rake out their fires, and put out their lights, Save that, from yonder ivy mantled tow'r, Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's fhade, The rude forefathers of the hamlet fleep. The breezy call of incenfe-breathing morn, The swallow, twitt'ring from the ftraw built shed, For them no more the blazing hearth fhall burn, Oft did the harveft to their fickle yield, Let *The term forever had better be rendered forgotten. as all must rife again at the judgment-day, to be acquitted or condemned by the Son of God, according to their works. REVELATIONS XX. 12. Let not ambition mock their useful toil, The boaft of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r, The paths of glory lead but to the grave* Nor you, ye proud! impute to thefe the fault, Can ftoried urn, or animated buft, Back to its manfion call the fleeting breath ? Perhaps in this neglected fpot is laid 9 Some heart once pregnant with celeftial fire: Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or wak'd to ecflacy the living lyre. But * All muft die, whether high or low; noble or unknown; our purfuits, however commendable and praife worthy, muft end in death. But knowledge to their eyes her ample page, And froze the genial current of the foul. Full many a gem, of pureft ray ferene, The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear; Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breaft Some mute inglorious Milton here may reft; Th' applaufe of lift'ning fenates to command, To fcatter plenty o'er a smiling 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 thro' flaughter to a throne, And shut the gates of mercy on mankind; The *Whatever abilities perfons may be poffeft of, if there are no opportunities of difplaying them, will be of little or no fervice either to the poffeffors of them, or the community, The fruggling pangs of confcious truth to hide, Far from the niadding crowd's ignoble ftrife They kept the noiseless tenor of their way*. Yet ev❜n these bones from infult to protect, Their names, their years, fpelt by the unletter'd mufe, For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, Nor caft one longing, ling'ring, look behind? On *Contentment in our different ftations of life, is the only way to fublunary happinefs: for what can diftrefs that man who wants no more than he poffeffes, whether he has more or lefs? |