Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and deftiny 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 thro' the long-drawn ifle and fretted vault, The pealing anthem fwells the note of praife. Can Can ftoried urn or animated bust Back to its manfion call the fleeting breath? Can Honour's voice provoke the filent duft, 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 extafy the living lyre. But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll; Chill Penury reprefs'd their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul, Full many a gem of pureft ray ferene, The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear: Full many a flower is born to blufh unfeen, Yet ev'n these bones from infult to protect Some frail memorial ftill erected nigh, With uncouth rhimes and shapeless sculpture deck'd,. Implores the paffing tribute of a figh. Their name, their years, fpelt by th' unletter'd muse, 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 refigned, Left the warm precincts of the chearful day, On |