Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect With uncouth rhymes 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 cheerful day, Nor cast one longing lingering look behind? On some fond breast the parting soul relies, For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonor'd dead, If chance, by lonely Contemplation ied, 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, woeful-wan, like one forlorn, Or crazed 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 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 churchway path we saw him borne ; Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay THE EPITAPH. Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth; 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 gain'd from Heaven-'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) The bosom of his Father and his God. THOMAS GRAY. THE GREATER WORLD. WHEN you forget the beauty of the scene The heights, the fields, the wide-winged air Not city streets. That little life of care Live with the spaces, wake with bird and cloud, Our home is nature, even to the proud Arcs of the sunset's realm. Then say the scene God made is glorious! The glow and noble dusks, victorious, Disperse regrets and pain. ROSE HAWTHORNE LATHROP. THE WORLD. THE world is too much with us; late and soon, We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. WESTMINSTER BRIDGE. Sept. 3, 1802. EARTH has not anything to show more fair: This city now doth like a garment wear All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. In his first splendor valley, rock, or hill; Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! SWEET day, so cool, so calm, so bright, Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave, Thy root is ever in its grave, And thou must die. Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses, |