Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r,

The moping owl does to the moon complain Of fuch as wand'ring near her fecret bow'r, Moleft her ancient folitary reign.

Beneath thofe rugged elms, that yew-tree's fhade, Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap, Each in his narrow cell forever laid,

The rude forefathers of the hamlet fleep,

The breezy call of incenfe-breathing morn,

The swallow twitt'ring from the ftraw-built shed, The cock's fhrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more fhall roufe them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth fhall burn,
Or bufy housewife ply her evening care;
No children run to lifp their fire's return,
Or climb his knees, the envied kiss to share.

Oft did the harvest to their fickle yield,

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; How jocund did they drive their team a-field! How bow'd the woods beneath theirfturdy stroke!

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obfcure;
Nor Grandeur hear with a difdainful fmile
The short and fimple annals of the poor.

The boaft of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r,

And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave Await alike th' inevitable hour.

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,
If mem❜ry o'er their tomb no trophies raise,
Where through the long-drawn ifle and fretted vault -
The pealing anthem fwells the note of praife.

Can ftoried urn or animated buft

Back to its manfion call the fleeting breath?
Can Honour's voice provoke the filent dust,
Or Flatt'ry footh the dull cold ear of Death?

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid

Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or wak'd to ecftafy the living lyre.

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page
Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unrol;
Chill Penury reprefs'd their noble rage,

And froze the genial current of the foul.

Full many a gem of pureft ray ferene,

The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear: Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness in the defert air.

Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast The little tyrant of the fields withstood;

Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,

Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood.

Th' applause of lift'ning fenates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,

And read their hist'ry in a nation's eyes.

Their lot forbade; nor circumfcrib'd alone

Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd; Forbade to wade through flaughter 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 fhrine of luxury and pride

With incense kindled at the mufe's flame.

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble ftrife,
Their fober wishes never learn'd to stray;
Along the cool fequefter'd vale of life

They kept the noiseless tenour of their way..

Yet ev'n thefe bones from infult to protect
Some frail memorial still erected nigh,

With uncouth rhimes and shapeless sculpture deck'd,
Implores the paffing tribute of a sigh.

Their name, their years, fpelt by the unletter'd Mufe,

The place of Fame and Elegy fupply:

And many a holy text around she strews,
That teach the ruftic moralift to die.

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,
This pleafing anxious being e'er refign'd,
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful 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 afhes live their wonted fires.

For thee who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead,
Doft in thefe lines their artlefs tale relate,

If chance, by lonely contemplation led,
Some kindred Spirit fhall inquire thy fate,

Haply fome hoary-headed fwain may say,
"Oft have we feen him at the peep of dawn
Brufhing with hafty fteps the dews away,
"To meet the fun upon the upland lawn.

"There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech

"That wreathes its old fantaftic roots fo high, "His liftlefs length at noontide would he stretch, "And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

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"Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in fcorn, "Mutt'ring his wayward fancies he would rove, "Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn,

"Or craz'd with care, or crofs'd in hopeless love.

"One morn I miss'd him on th'accustom'd hill, "Along the heath and near his fav'rite tree; "Another came; nor yet beside the rill,

"Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he:

"The next, with dirges due, in fad array,

"Slow thro'the church-way path we saw him borne. "Approach, and read (for thou can'ft read) the lay, "Grav'd on the ftone beneath yon aged thorn."

THE

E PIT A PH.

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 foul fincere,
Heav'n did a recompenfe as largely send:

He gave to Mis'ry all he had, a tear,,

He gain'd from Heav'n, 'twas all he wifh'd, a Friend.

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