Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds ;
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds :
Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower,
The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of such as, wandering near her secret bower,
Molest her ancient solitary reign.

Beneath these rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,

The swallow twittering from her 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 evening care;
No children run to lisp their sire's return,

Or climb his knees the envied 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 a-field!

How bowed 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 power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Await, alike, the inevitable hour:

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,
If memory 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 flattery 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 swayed.
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre :

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page,
Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll :
Chill penury repressed their noble rage,

And froze the genial current of the soul.
Full many a gem of purest ray serene,

The dark unfathomed 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. The applause of listening senates to command The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,

And read their history in a nation's eyes,

Their lot forbade : nor circumscribed alone

Their glowing virtues, but their crimes confined,— 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 madd'ning crowd's ignoble strife, Their sober wishes never learned to stray; Along the cool sequestered vale of life

They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. Yet e'en these bones, from insult to protect, Some frail memorial still erected nigh,

With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked,
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

Their name, their years, spelt by the unlettered 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 resigned-
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
Nor cast one longing, lingering 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.

For thee who, mindful of the unhonoured 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,
Muttering his wayward fancies, he would rove;
Now drooping, woful, wan, like one forlorn,

Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love!
'One morn I missed him on the accustomed hill,
Along the heath, and near his favourite 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, Graved 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 frowned not on his humble birth,
And melancholy marked him for her own.
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 gained from heaven-'twas all he wished—a friend.

No further 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.

Gray.

If thou shouldst ever come by choice or chance
To Modena, where still religiously
Among her ancient trophies is preserved
Bologna's bucket (in its chain it hangs
Within that reverend tower, the Guirlandine),
Stop at a palace near the Reggio Gate,
Dwelt in of old by one of the Orsini.
Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace,
And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses,

Will long detain thee; through their archèd walks,
Dim at noonday, discovering many a glimpse
Of knights and dames, such as in old romance,
And lovers, such as in heroic song,

Perhaps the two, for groves were their delight,
That in the spring-time, as alone they sat,
Venturing together on a tale of love,

Read only part that day. A summer sun
Sets ere one half is seen; but ere thou go,
Enter the house-prithee, forget it not-
And look awhile upon a picture there.
"Tis of a lady in her earliest youth,
The very last of that illustrious race,
Done by Zampieri-but I care not whom.
He, who observes it, ere he passes on,
Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again,
That he may call it up, when far away.

She sits, inclining forward as to speak,
Her lips half-open, and her finger up,

As though she said, 'Beware!' Her vest of gold
'Broidered with flowers, and clasped from head to foot,
An emerald stone in every golden clasp ;

And on her brow, fairer than alabaster,
A coronet of pearls. But then her face,
So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth,
The overflowings of an innocent heart-

It haunts me still, though many a year has fled,
Like some wild melody!

Alone it hangs

Over a mouldering heir-loom, its companion,
An open chest, half-eaten by the worm,
But richly carved by Antony of Trent
With Scripture-stories from the Life of Christ;
A chest that came from Venice, and had held
The ducal robes of some old ancestor.

That by the way-it may be true or false-
But don't forget the picture; and thou wilt not,
When thou hast heard the tale they told me there.
She was an only child; from infancy
The joy, the pride of an indulgent Sire.
Her Mother dying of the gift she gave,
That precious gift, what else remained to him?
The young Ginevra was his all in life,
Still as she grew, for ever in his sight;
And in her fifteenth year became a bride,
Marrying an only son, Francesco Doria,
Her playmate from her birth, and her first love.
Just as she looks there in her bridal dress,
She was all gentleness, all gaiety,

Her pranks the favourite theme of every tongue.
But now the day was come, the day, the hour;
Now, frowning, smiling, for the hundredth time,
The nurse, that ancient lady, preached decorum ;
And, in the lustre of her youth, she gave
Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco.

Great was the joy; but at the Bridal feast,
When all sate down, the Bride was wanting there.
Nor was she to be found! Her Father cried :
""Tis but to make a trial of our love!'

And filled his glass to all; but his hand shook,
And soon from guest to guest the panic spread.
"Twas but that instant she had left Francesco,
Laughing and looking back and flying still,
Her ivory tooth imprinted on his finger.
But now, alas! she was not to be found;
Nor from that hour could anything be guessed,
But that she was not!-Weary of his life,
Francesco flew to Venice, and forthwith
Flung it away in battle with the Turk.
Orsini lived; and long was to be seen

An old man wandering as in quest of something,
Something he could not find he knew not what.
When he was gone, the house remained awhile
Silent and tenantless-then went to strangers.
Full fifty years were past, and all forgot,
When on an idle day, a day of search
'Mid the old lumber in the Gallery,

That mouldering chest was noticed; and 'twas said

By one as young, as thoughtless as Ginevra,

·

Why not remove it from its lurking-place?'

"Twas done as soon as said; but on the way