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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 wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, His listless length at noontide would he stretch,

And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

“ Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,

Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove; Now drooping, woeful, wan, like one forlorn,

Or craz’d with care, or cross'd in hopeless love.

“ One morn I miss'd him on the 'custom'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,

Slow through the churchway path we saw him borne ; Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay

Grav'd 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

He gained from Heaven ('twas 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,)

The bosom of his Father and his God.

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H me! full sorely is my heart forlorn, A

To think how modest worth neglected lies, While partial Fame doth with her blasts adorn Such deeds alone as pride and pomp disguise, Deeds of ill sort, and mischievous emprise :

Lend me thy clarion, goddess ! let me try
To sound the praise of Merit ere it dies,

Such as I oft have chaunced to espy,
Lost in the dreary shades of dull obscurity.

In every village marked with little spire,
Embower'd in trees, and hardly known to fame,
There dwells, in lowly shades and mean attire,
A matron old, whom we Schoolmistress name,
Who boasts unruly brats with birch to tame:
They grieven sore, in piteous durance pent,
Awed by the power of this relentless dame,

And oft-times, on vagaries idly bent,
For unkempt hair, or task unconn'd, are sorely shent.

And all in sight doth rise a birchen tree,
Which Learning near her little dome did stowe;
Whilom a twig of small regard to see,
Though now so wide its waving branches flow,
And work the simple vassals mickle woe;
For not a wind might curl the leaves that blew,
But their limbs shudder'd and their pulse beat low,

And as they look'd they found their horror grew, And shaped it into rods, and tingled at the view.

So have I seen (who has not may conceive)
A lifeless phantom near a garden placed,
So doth it wanton birds of peace bereave
Of sport, of song, of pleasure, of repast;
They start, they stare, they wheel, they look aghast :
Sad servitude! such comfortless annoy
May no bold Briton's riper agé e'er taste !

Ne superstition clog his dance of joy,
Ne vision empty, vain, his native bliss destroy.

Near to this dome is found a patch so green,
On which the tribe their gambols do display,
And at the door imprisoning board is seen,
Lest weakly wights of smaller size should stray,
Eager, perdie, to bask in sunny day!
The noises intermix'd which thence resound,
Do Learning's little tenement betray,

Where sits the dame, disguised in look profound,
And eyes her fairy throng, and turns her wheel around.

Her cap, far whiter than the driven snow,
Emblem right meet of decency does yield;
Her apron dyed in grain, as blue, I trow,
As is the harebell that adorns the field;
And in her hand, for sceptre, she does wield
Tway birchin sprays, with anxious fear entwined,
With dark distrust, and sad repentance fill’d,

And steadfast hate, and sharp affliction join'd,
And fury uncontrolld, and chastisement unkind.

Few but have kenn'd, in semblance meet pourtray'd,
The childish faces of old Æol's train,
Libs, Notus, Auster: these in frowns array'd,
How then would fare, or earth, or sky, or main,
Were the stern god to give his slaves the rein?
And were not she rebellious breasts to quell,
And were not she her statutes to maintain,

The cot no more, I ween, were deem'd the cell Where comely peace of mind, and decent order dwell.

A russet stole was o'er her shoulders thrown,
A russet kirtle fenc'd the nipping air;
'Twas simple russet, but it was her own;
'Twas her own country bred the flock so fair;

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