GRAY. ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. THE curfew tolls the knell of parting day, Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r, The moping owl does to the moon complain 5 ΙΟ Of such as, wand'ring near her secret bow'r, Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, 15 The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn, The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed, 20 For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, 25 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, 30 The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Awaits alike th' inevitable hour. 35 The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye Proud, impute to these the fault, Can storied urn, or animated bust, Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can Honor's voice provoke the silent dust, 40 Or Flatt'ry sooth the dull cold ear of Death? Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 45 Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed, Or wak'd to extasy the living lyre. But Knowledge to their eyes, her ample page Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll; 50 Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul. Full many a gem of purest ray serene The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear: Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 55 Scme village-Hampden, that, with dauntless breast, Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood. 69 Th' applause of list'ning senates to command, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, And read their hist'ry in a nation's eyes, Their lot forbad: nor circumscrib'd alone 65 Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd; Forbad to wade through slaughter to a throne, And shut the gates of mercy on mankind, The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, Along the cool sequester'd vale of life 70 75 They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. Yet ev❜n these bones from insult to protect Some frail memorial still erected nigh, With uncouth rimes and shapeless sculpture deck'd, 80 Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd Muse, And many a holy text around she strews, That teach the rustic moralist to die. For who, to dumb Forgetfulness a prey, On some fond breast the parting soul relies, 85 90 For thee, who mindful of th' unhonour'd Dead If chance, by lonely Contemplation led, 95 Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, 66 Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, 66 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 pour upon the brook that babbles by. "Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Mutt'ring 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, 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; 100 105 IJO "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 115 Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." THE EPITAPH. Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth, Large was his bounty and his soul sincere, He gave to Mis'ry all he had, a tear, 120 He gained from Heaven ('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. 125 THE BARD. I. I. “RUIN seize thee, ruthless King! To save thy secret soul from nightly fears, As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side He wound with toilsome march his long array. Stout Glo'ster stood aghast in speechless trance: 16 To arms!" cried Mortimer, and couch'd his quiv'ring lance. |