Though fools spurn Hymen's gentle powers, 25 That marriage, rightly understood, Our babes shall richest comforts bring; We 'll form their minds with studious care To all that manly, good, and fair, And train them for the skies. While they our wisest hours engage, They'll joy our youth, support our age, They 'll grow in virtue every day, And thus our fondest love repay, And recompense our cares. No borrow'd joys! they 're all our own, Or by the world forgot: Monarchs! we envy not your state; Our portion is not large, indeed, But then how little do we need, nt no more than may suffice, 30 30 We'll therefore relish with content Whate'er kind Providence has sent, 55 For if our stock be very small, "T is prudence to enjoy it all, Nor lose the present hour. 60 To be resign'd when ills betide, And pleased with favours given; We'll ask no long-protracted treat, (Since winter-life is seldom sweet); But when our feast is o'er, Grateful from table we 'll arise, 05 Nor grudge our sons, with envious eyes, Thus hand in hand through life we'll go; And mingle with the dead: While Conscience, like a faithful friend, Shall, when all other comforts cease, And smooth the bed of death. COTTON. F ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. THE curfew tolls the knell of parting day, Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, 5 The moping owl does to the moon complain 10 Hark! how the sacred calm that breathes around Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, 20 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, 25 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: 30 Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 35 40 Nor you, ye Proud, impute to these the fault, 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 45 Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; 50 But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page, 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: 55 Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast The applause of listening senates to command, And read their history in a nation's eyes, Their lot forbade: nor circumscribed alone 60 65 Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined; 70 The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, 75 They kept the noiseless tenour of their way: 80 Yet ev'n 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, spelt by the unletter'd Muse, And many a holy text around she strews, 86 |