Their name, their years, spelt 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 pleasing 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 breaft 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 Ashes live their wonted Fires.

For thee, who mindful of th' unhonour'd Dead
Doft in thefe lines their artless 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 seen him at the peep of dawn
Brushing with hafty steps the dews away
To meet the fun upon the upland lawn,

• There at the foot of yonder nodding beech

• That wreathes its old fantastic roots fo high,

• His listless length at noon-tide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by.