Can storied urn or animated bust

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust,
Or Flatt'ry sooth 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 extasy the living lyre.

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page
Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll;

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Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage,

And froze the genial current of the soul.

Full many a gem of purest ray serene,

The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear :

Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

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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.

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Th' applause of list'ning senates 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 forbad: nor circumscrib'd alone

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Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd;

Forbad to wade through slaughter to a throne,

And shut the gates of mercy on mankind,

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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 learn'd to stray;
Along the cool sequester'd vale of life

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They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

Yet ev❜n these bones from insult to protect
Some frail memorial still erected nigh,

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

Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd 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 resign'd, Left the warm precincts of the chearful day, Nor cast one longing ling'ring look behind?

On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
Some pious drops the closing eye requires;
Ev'n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,
Ev'n in our Ashes live their wonted Fires.1

1 Ch' i veggio nel pensier, dolce mio fuoco,
Fredda una lingua, & due begli occhi chiusi
Rimaner doppo noi pien di faville.

Petrarch. Son. 169.

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For thee, who mindful of th' 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,
'Mutt'ring 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 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 sad array

'Slow thro' the church-way path we saw him born. 'Approach and read (for thou canʼst read) the lay, 115 '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.

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Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,
Heav'n did a recompence as largely send:
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 seek his merits to disclose,

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,

(There they alike in trembling hope repose,)1

The bosom of his Father and his God.

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1

VIII.

A LONG STORY.

IN Britain's Isle, no matter where,
An ancient pile of building stands :
The Huntingdons and Hattons there
Employ'd the power of Fairy hands

To raise the cieling's fretted height,

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Each pannel in achievements cloathing,

Rich windows that exclude the light,
And passages, that lead to nothing.

Full oft within the spatious walls,

When he had fifty winters o'er him,
My grave 2 Lord-Keeper led the Brawls:

The Seal, and Maces, danc'd before him.

His bushy beard, and shoe-strings green,
His high-crown'd hat, and sattin-doublet,

Mov'd the stout heart of England's Queen,
Tho' Pope and Spaniard could not trouble it.

paventosa speme.

Petrarch. Son. 114.

2 Hatton, prefer'd by Queen Elizabeth for his graceful Person

and fine Dancing.

IO

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What, in the very first beginning!
Shame of the versifying tribe!
Your Hist'ry whither are you spinning?
Can you do nothing but describe?

A House there is, (and that's enough)
From whence one fatal morning issues
A brace of Warriors, not in buff,

But rustling in their silks and tissues.

The first came cap-a-pee from France,
Her conqu❜ring destiny fulfilling,
Whom meaner Beauties eye askance,
And vainly ape her art of killing.

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Alas, who would not wish to please her!

With bonnet blue and capucine,

And aprons long they hid their armour,

And veil'd their weapons bright and keen
In pity to the country-farmer.

(By this time all the Parish know it) Had told, that thereabouts there lurk'd

A wicked Imp they call a Poet,

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