Full many a gem of purest ray serene
The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear;
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,

And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless breast,

The little tyrant of his fields withstood; Some mute, inglorious Milton here may rest; Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood. The applause of listening senates to command, The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,

And read their history in a nation's eyes,

Their lot forbade ; nor circumscribed alone
Their growing virtues, but their crimes con-
fined;

Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind;
The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,
Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride
With incense kindled at the muse's flame.
Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,
Their sober wishes never learned to stray;
Along the cool, sequestered vale of life

They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

Yet even these bones from insult to protect,
Some frail memorial still erected nigh,
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture
decked,

Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

Their name, their years, spelt by the unlettered

muse,

The place of fame and elegy supply; And many a holy text around she strews, That teach the rustic moralist to die.

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,

This pleasing, anxious being e'er resigned, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind? On some fond breast the parting soul relies, Some pious drops the closing eye requires ; E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.

For thee, who, mindful of the unhonored 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, woful-wan, like one forlorn,

Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love.

"One morn I missed him on the customed hill, Along the heath, and near his favorite 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 church-way path we saw him

borne ;

Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay Graved 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 frowned not on his humble birth, And melancholy marked 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 ('t was all he wished) a
friend.

No further seek his merits to disclose,

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

THOMAS GRAY.

Then, when the gale is sighing,
And when the leaves are dying,
And when the song is o'er,
O, let us think of those
Whose lives are lost in woes,

Whose cup of grief runs o'er.

HENRY NEELE

HENCE, ALL YE VAIN DELIGHTS.

HENCE, all ye vain delights,

As short as are the nights
Wherein you spend your folly!
There's naught in this life sweet,
If man were wise to see 't,
But only melancholy,

O, sweetest melancholy !
Welcome, folded arms, and fixed eyes,
A sigh that piercing mortifies,
A look that's fastened to the ground,
A tongue chained up without a sound!
Fountain-heads and pathless groves,
Places which pale passion loves!
Moonlight walks, when all the fowls
Are warmly housed save bats and owls!
A midnight bell, a parting groan !
These are the sounds we feed upon.

Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley;
Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy.

BEAUMONT and FLETCHER.

ANONYMOUS.

MOAN, MOAN, YE DYING GALES.

MOAN, moan, ye dying gales!
The saddest of your tales
Is not so sad as life;
Nor have you e'er began
A theme so wild as man,

Or with such sorrow rife.

Fall, fall, thou withered leaf!
Autumn sears not like grief,

Nor kills such lovely flowers;
More terrible the storm,
More mournful the deform,

When dark misfortune lowers.

Hush hush! thou trembling lyre,
Silence, ye vocal choir,

And thou, mellifluous lute,

For man soon breathes his last,
And all his hope is past,

And all his music mute.