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By Mr. GRAY.

The church yard, abounds with images, which find a mirror in every mind: and with fentiments, to which every bofom returns an echo. DR. JOHNSON.


HE curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd winds flowly o'er the lea;
The plowman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

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 distant folds;

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An evening bell, appointed by William the Conqueror, to remind people to rake out their fires, and put out their lights,

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

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's fhade,
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, twitt'ring from the ftraw built shed,
The cock's fhrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
No more fhall roufe them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth fhall burn,
Or bufy housewife ply her evening care;
Nor children run to lifp their fire's return,
Or climb his knees the envied kifs to fhare.

Oft did the harveft to their fickle yield,
Their furrow oft the flubborn glebe has broke ;
How jocund did they drive their team a-field!
How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!


*The term forever had better be rendered forgotten. as all must rife again at the judgment-day, to be acquitted or condemned by the Son of God, according to their works. REVELATIONS XX. 12.

Let not ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obfcure;
Nor grandeur hear with a difdainful smile
The fhort 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 thefe the fault,
If mem'ry o'er their tomb no trophies raise ;
Where thro' the long drawn aifle and fretted vault,
The pealing anthem fwells the note of praife.

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 foothe the dull cold ear of death?

Perhaps in this neglected fpot is laid


Some heart once pregnant with celeftial fire: Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or wak'd to ecflacy the living lyre.


* All muft die, whether high or low; noble or unknown; our purfuits, however commendable and praife worthy, muft end in death.

But knowledge to their eyes her ample page,
Rich with the fpoils of Time, did ne'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 flow'r is born to blush unfeen,
And wafte its sweetness on the defart air.

Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breaft
The little tyrants of his fields withflood;

Some mute inglorious Milton here may reft;
Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood,

Th' applaufe of lift'ning fenates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to defpife;

To fcatter plenty o'er a smiling land

And read their history in a nation's eyes.

Their lot forbad: nor circumfcrib'd alone

Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd: Forbad to wade thro' flaughter to a throne,

And shut the gates of mercy on mankind;


*Whatever abilities perfons may be poffeft of, if there are no opportunities of difplaying them, will be of little or no fervice either to the poffeffors of them, or the community,

The fruggling pangs of confcious truth to hide,
To quench the blufhes of ingenuous fhame,
Or heap the fhrine of Luxury and Pride
With incenfe kindled at the Mufe's flame.

Far from the niadding crowd's ignoble ftrife
Their fober wishes never learn'd to ftray;
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 ftill erected nigh,
With uncouth rhymes and fhapeless sculpture deck'd,
Implores the paffing tribute of a figh,

Their names, their years, fpelt by the unletter'd mufe,
The place of fame and elegy fupply:
And many a holy text around fhe firew,
That teach the ruftic moralift to die.

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,
This pleafing anxious being e'er refign'd,
Left the warm precincts of the chearful day,

Nor caft one longing, ling'ring, look behind?


*Contentment in our different ftations of life, is the only way to fublunary happinefs: for what can diftrefs that man who wants no more than he poffeffes, whether he has more or lefs?

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