An ELEGY. Written in a country church-yard. The curfeu tolls the knell of parting day, Now fades the glimmering landscape on the fight, Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's fhade, Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, The rude fore-fathers of the hamlet fleep. The breezy call of incenfe breathing morn, The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built fhed, The cock's fhrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. For them no more the blazing hearth fhall burn, 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 their fturdy ftroke! Let not ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and deftiny obfcure; The boaft of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r, The paths of glory lead but to the grave. E Forgive, ye proud, th' involuntary fault, If memory to these no trophies raise, Where through the long-drawn ifle and fretted vault The pealing anthem fwells the notes of praise. Can ftoried urn, or animated buft, Back to its manfion call the fleeting breath? Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire, Hands that the reins of empire might have fway'd, Or wak'd to extafy the living lyre. But knowledge to their eyes her ample page, rage, Full many a gem of pureft ray ferene, The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear: Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breaft And read their history in a nation's eyes Their lot forbad; nor circumfcrib'd alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd; Forbad to wade through flaughter to a throne, And shut the gates of mercy on mankind, The ftruggling pangs of confcious truth to hide, To quench the blufhes of ingenuous fhame, Or heap the fhrine of luxury and pride With incenfe, kindled at the mufe's flame. Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, Yet e'en these bones from infult to protect, Their name, their years, fpelt by th' unletter'd mufe, For who to dumb forgetfulness a prey, For thee, who mindful of th' unhonour'd dead Haply, fome hoary-headed fwain 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 liftlefs length at noon-tide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by. Hard by yon wood, now fmiling 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 befide the rill, Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he. • The next with dirges due in fad array, ⚫ Slow through the church-way path we faw him borne. There fcatter'd oft, the earliest of the year, The EPITAPH. Here refts his head upon the lap of earth Large was his bounty, and his foul fincere, He gave to mis'ry (all he had) a tear: He gain'd from heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) a friend. No farther feek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, (There they alike in trembling hope repose) The bofom of his father and his God.' We have already obferved that any dreadful catastrophe is a proper fubject for Elegy; and what can be more fo than a civil war, where the fathers and children, the dearest relations and friends, meet each other in arms? We have on this fubject a most affecting Elegy, intituled the Tears of Scotland, afcribed to Dr. Smollet, and fet to mufic by Mr. Ofwald, juft after the late rebellion. The Tears of SCOTLAND. Written in the Year 1746. I. Mourn, hapless CALEDONIA, mourn Thy fons, for valour long renown'd, Invite the ftranger to the door; II. The wretched owner fees afar His all become the prey of war; Bethinks him of his babes and wife, Then fmites his breaft, and curfes life. Thy fwains are famish'd on the rocks, Where once they fed their wanton flocks: Thy ravish'd virgins fhriek in vain ; Thy infants perish on the plain. III. What boots it then, in every clime, Thro' the wide fpreading waste of time, Thy martial glory, crown'd with praise, Still fhone with undiminish'd blaze? Thy tow'ring fpirit now is broke, Thy neck is bended to the yoke. What foreign arms could never quell, By civil rage, and rancour fell. IV. The rural pipe, and merry lay, No more fhall chear the happy day: No focial scenes of gay delight Beguile the dreary winter night: No ftrains but those of forrow flow, And nought be heard but founds of woe; While the pale phantoms of the flain Glide nightly o'er the filent plain. V. Oh baneful caufe, oh! fatal morn, |