Page images
PDF
EPUB
[blocks in formation]

TH

The lowing herd wind flowly o'er the lea, The plowman homewards plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

[blocks in formation]

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the fight,
And all the air a folemn ftillness holds,

Save where the beetle wheels his drony flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the diftant folds;

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r
The mopeing owl does to the moon complain
Of fuch, as wand'ring near her fecret bow'r,
Moleft her ancient, folitary reign.

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

The rude Forefathers of the hamlet fleep.

The breezy call of incenfe-breathing Morn,
The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed,
The cock's fhrill clarion, or the echoing horn
No more fhall rouse them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or bufy houfwife ply her evening care:
No children run to lifp their fire's return,
Or climb his knees the envied kifs to fhare.

Oft

Oft did the harvest to their fickle 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 deftiny obscure;
Nor Grandeur hear, with a difdainful smile,
The short and fimple 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 Tomb no Trophies raise,
Where through the long-drawn ifle 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 dust,
Or Flatt'ry footh the dull cold ear of Death?

[blocks in formation]

Perhaps in this neglected fpot 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 nç'er unroll;
Chill Penury reprefs'd their noble rage,..
And froze the genial current of the foul.

Full many a gem of pureft ray ferene,
The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear;
Full many a flower is barn to blush unfeen,
And waste its sweetness on the defart air.

Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breaft
The little Tyrant of his fields withstood;
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,
Some Cromwell guiltlefs of his country's blood.

Th' applause of lift'ning senates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
To scatter plenty o'er a fmiling land,

And read their hift'ry in a nation's eyes

Their

Their lot forbad: nor circumfcrib'd alone
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd;
Forbad to wade through flaughter to a throne,
And fhut the gates of mercy on mankind,

The struggling pangs of confcious 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 fober wishes never learn'd to stray;
Along the cool fequefter'd vale of life
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

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

With uncouth rhimes and shapeless sculpture deck'd,

Implores the paffing tribute of a figh.

Their name, their years, spelt 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 dye.

For

« EelmineJätka »