For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or bufy housewife ply her evening care;
No children run to lifp their fire's return,

Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

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 sturdy stroke !

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,

Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; Nor Grandeur hear with a difdainful smile

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 through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault,
The pealing anthem fwells the note of praise.

Can ftoried urn or animated buft

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

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 unrol;
Chill Penury reprefs'd their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the soul.

Full many a gem of pureft ray serene,

The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear: Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness in the defert air.

Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breaft
The little tyrant of the fields withstood;

Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,
Some Cromwell, guiltlefs of his country's blood.

Th' applaufe of lift'ning fenates to command,
The threats of pain and rain to despise,

To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,

And read their hist'ry in a nation's eyes,

Their lot forbade; nor circumfcrib'd alone

Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd; Forbade to wade through flaughter to a throne,

And shut the gates of mercy on mankind:

The

The ftruggling pangs of confcious truth to hide,
To quench the blushes of ingenious fhame,
Or heap the fhrine of luxury and pride

With incenfe kindled at the mufe's flame.

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble ftrife,
Their fober wishes never learn'd to stray;
Along the cool fequefter'd vale of life

They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.

Yet ev❜n these bones from infult to protect
Some frail memorial ftill erected nigh,

With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd
Implores the paffing tribute of a figh.

Their name, their years, fpelt by the unletter'd Muse,
The place of Fame and Elegy supply:
And many a holy text around she ftrews,
That teach the ruftic moralist to die.

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,

This pleafing anxious being e'er refign'd, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor caft one longing lingʼring look behind?

On fome fond breast the parting foul relies,

Some pious drops the clofing eye requires; Ev'n from the tomb the voice of nature cries,

Ev'n in our ashes live their wonted fires.

For

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 fhall inquire thy fate.

Haply fome hoary-headed fwain may fay,

"Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn Brufhing 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 noontide would he ftretch, "And pore upon the brook that bubbles by.

"Hard by yon wood, now fmiling as in fcorn, "Mutt'ring his wayward fancies he would rove, "New 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' accuftom'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 thro' the church-way path we faw him borne. "Approach, and read (if thou can'ft read) the lay, "Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.”

THE

TH E

EPITAPH.

ERE refts his head upon the lap of Earth

HE

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 foul fincere,
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 wifh'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 bosom of his Father and his God.