The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,

The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,

No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her ev'ning care:
No children run to lisp their sire's return,

Or climb his knees the envy'd kiss to share.

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; How jocund did they drive their team afield! How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

Let not ambition mock their useful toil,

Their homely joys, and destiny obscure:
Nor grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile,
The short and simple annals of the poor.

The boast 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 tombs no trophies raise,
Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

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 soothe 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 ecstacy the living lyre.

But knowledge to their eyes her ample page,

Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll;

Chill penury repress'd their noble rage,

And froze the genial current of the soul.

Q

Full many a gem of purest ray serene,

The daik unfathom'd caves of ocean bear;
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

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.
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 forbade; nor circumscrib'd alone

Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd:
Forbade to wade through slaughter 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 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

They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

Yet e'en those bones from insults to protect,
Some frail memorial still erected nigh,
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 ling'ring look behind?

On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
Some pious drops the closing eye requires;
E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries,
E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.

For thee, who, miudful of th' unhonour'd dead,
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;
If chance, by lonely contemplation led,
Some kindred spirit shall enquire thy fate.

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,
"Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn
Brushing with hasty steps the dew away,
"To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.

66

There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech, "That wreathes its old fantastic root so high, "His listless length at noon-tide would he stretch, "And pore upon the brook that bubbles by.

66

"Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Muttering 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,

66

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 borne; "Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.

"There scatter'd oft, the earliest of the year,

66

By hands unseen, are showers of violets found "The redbreast loves to build and warble there, "And little footsteps lightly print the ground."

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.

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, Heav'n did a recompence as largely send; gave to mis❜ry all he had-a tear;

He

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) The bosom of his Father and his God,

CASTLE-BUILDING,

An Elegy.

ANONYMOUS.

GODDESS of golden dreams! whose magic power Sheds smiles of joy o'er misery's haggard face, And lavish strews the visionary flower

To deck life's dreary paths with transient grace;

I woo thee, Fancy, from thy fairy cell,

Where, midst the endless woes of human kind, Wrapt in ideal bliss thou lov'st to dwell, And sport in happier regions unconfin'd.

Deep sunk, O goddess! in thy pleasing trance, Oft let me seek yon low sequester'd vale, While wisdom's self shall steal a sidelong glance, And smile contempt, yet listen to thy tale.

Alas! how little do her votaries guess

Those rigid truths, which learned fools revere,
Serve but to prove a bane to happiness;-
Our joys delusive, but our woes sincere.

Be their's to search where clust'ring roses grow, Touching each sharp thorn's point, to prove how keen;

Be mine, to trace their beauties as they blow,
And catch their fragrance where they blash un-

seen.

Haply my path may lie through barren vales,
Where niggard fortune all her sweets denies,
E'en there shall Fancy scent the ambient gales,
And scatter flow'rets of a thousand dyes,

Nor let the worldling scoff; be his the task

To form new schemes, and mourn his hopes betrayed;

Be mine to range unseen, 'tis all I ask,

And frame new worlds beneath the silent shade.

To look beyond the views of wealth and pride,

Bidding the mind's eye gaze without controul, Through wild ecstatic day-dreams far and wide, To bring return of comfort to the soul!

To bid groves, hills, and lucid streams appear,
The gilded spire, arch'd dome, and fretted vault,
And sweet society, be ever near,

Love ever young, and friends without a fault.

I see, entranc'd, the gay conceptions rise,
My harvest ripen, and my white flocks thrive;
And still, as Fancy pours her large supplies,
I taste the god-like happiness to give: