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The breczy call of incenfe-breathing Morn,
The swallow twitt'ring from the ftraw-built fhed,
The cock's fhrill clarion, or the ecchoing horn,
No more fhall rouse them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy houfwife 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 ftubborn glebe has broke;
How jocund did they drive their team afield!
How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy ftroke!

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and deftiny 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 These the fault,
If Mem'ry o'er their Tomb no Trophies raise,
Where thro' the long-drawn ifle and fretted vault
The pealing anthem fwells the note of praise.

Can

Can ftoried urn or animated bust
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 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 extafy the living lyre.

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page
Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll;
Chill Penury reprefs'd their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the soul.

Full many a gem of pureft ray ferene,
The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear;
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And wafte its sweetness on the desert 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 fenates 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

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Their lot forbad: nor circumfcrib'd alone

Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd;
Forbad to wade through flaughter to a throne,
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind,

The ftruggling pangs of confcious truth to hide,
To quench the blushes of ingenuous fhame,
Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride
With incenfe kindled at the Mufe'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 ftill erected nigh,

With uncouth rhimes and shapeless sculpture deck'd,

Implores the paffing tribute of a figh.

Their name, their years, fpelt by th' unletter'd Muse,

The place of fame and elegy supply:

And many a holy text around she strews,
That teach the ruftic moralift to dye.

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?

On

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 thee, who mindful of th' unhonour'd Dead
Doft in these lines their artless tale relate;
If chance, by lonely Contemplation led,
Some kindred Spirit fhall inquire thy fate,

Haply fome hoary-headed Swain may fay,
• Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn
Brushing with hafty steps the dews away

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To meet the fun upon the upland lawn.

• There at the foot of yonder nodding beech
• That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,
• His liftless length at noon-tide wou'd he stretch,
• And
pore upon the brook that babbles by.

Hard by yon wood, now fmiling as in fcorn, • Mutt'ring his wayward fancies he wou'd rove;

Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn,

• Or craz'd with care, or crofs'd in hopeless love.

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One morn I mifs'd him on the custom'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,

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The next with dirges due in fad array

▾ Slow through the church-way path we saw him born, Approach and read (for thou can't read) the lay, • Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.

The EPITAPH.

HERE refts his head upon the lap of Earth

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 fend:
He gave to Mis'ry all he had, a tear,

He gain'd from Heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) a friend.

No farther feek his merits to disclose,

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, (There they alike in trembling hope repofe) The bofom of his Father and his God.

HYMN

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