Beneath those 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 the 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,
Nor 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 afield!

How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroka.

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 tomb no trophies raise,
Where, through the long-drawn aisle and fretted van
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

Can storied urn, or animated bust,

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can Honor'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 growing 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 maddening crowd's ignoble strife,
Their sober wishes never learnt to stray:
Along the cool, sequestered vale of life

They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

Yet even 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 names, their years, spelled by the unluttered Musa
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;
Even from the tomb the voice of Nature cries.
Even in our ashes live their wonted fires.

For thee, who, mindful of the unhonored 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 with hopeless love.

"One morn I missed him on the accustomed hill,
Along the heath, and near his favorite 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 church-way path we saw him borca
Approach and read, (for thou canst read,) the lay,
Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn."

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 't was all he wished- a friend.

-

OF THE HIGHER SPECIES OF POETRY.

The gher species of poetry embraces the three following livisions, namely:

1. Tales and Romances.

2. Epic and Dramatic Poetry.

5. Di lactic and Descriptive Poetry.*

A Tale is, literally, any thing that is told, and may relate either real or fictitious events. When the events related in tale are believed really to have happened, the tale is termed history.

A Romance is a tale of interesting, or wonderful adventures; and has its name from those that were recited by the Troubadours, (that is, inventors,) or wandering minstrels, of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries.

The tales of the Troubadours related principally to the military achievements of the crusading knights, their gallantry, and fidelity They were delivered in a corrupted Latin dialect, called Provençal, or Provincial, by the inhabitants of Rome, and Romanzo, or Romish, by the Gothic nations, and hence the tale itself was called a Romance. Some of them were prose, some in verse, and some in a miscellaneous union of prose narrative and song. But in neither form were they in all cases worthy of the name of poems.

Novels, (literally, something new,) are the adventures of imaginary persons, in which supernatural beings are not introduced. The novel is generally also in prose. Whenever a power is introduced superior to that of mortals, the novel is properly a romance. "The Epicurean," by Moore, is an example of this kind, which, although in the form of prose, is highly poetical in its character. It is full of imaginative power, and abounds in figures of the most beautiful kind, dressed in the most glow. ing colors.

That power, which the poet introduces, whatever it may be, to accom plish what mere human agency cannot effect, is called the machinery of the poem.

An Epic poem is a poetical, romantic tale, embracing many personages and many incidents. One general and important design must be apparent in its construction, to which every separate actor and action must be subservient. The accounts of these subordinate actions are called episodes, and should not be extended to a great length.

Examples of epic poems may be seen in the "Iliad," and "Odyssey," of Homer, (translated by Pope,) the "Eneid," of Virgil, (translated by Dryden,) the "Pharsalia," of Lucan, (translated by Rowe,) and the "Paradise Lost" of Milton. Epic poems are rare productions, and scarcely any nation can boast of more than one.

The word epic literally means nothing more than a tale. It is, how ever, a tale concerning a hero or heroes, and hence epic poetry is alsc

See the piece entitled "The Empire of Poetry," by Fontenelle, pag 33, under the head of Allegory.

called heroic verse. Epopea, or Epopœia, is merely a learned naine fʊ epic poem.

A Drama is a poem of the epic kind, but so compressed and adapted, that the whole tale, instead of requiring to be read or recited at intervals, by an individual, may be exhib ited as actually passing before our eyes. Every actor in the poem has his representative on the stage, who speaks the language of the poet, as if it were his own; and every action is literally performed or imitated, as if it were of natural oc

currence.

As a dramatic writer, Shakspeare stands unrivalled, among English authors, and it may well be questioned, whether any nation has produced his superior.

In the construction of a Drama, rules have been laid down by critics, the principal of which relate to the three Unities, as they are called, of action, of time, and of place. Unity of action requires, that a single object should be kept in view. No underplot, or secondary action is allowable unless it tend to advance the prominent purpose. Unity of time requires, that the events should be limited to a short period; seldom if ever more than a single day. Unity of place requires the confinement of the actions represented within narrow geographical limits. Another rule of dramatic criticism is termed poetical justice; by which it is understood, that the personages shall be rewarded or punished. according to their respective desert. A regular drama is an historical picture, in which we perceive unity of design, and compare every portion of the composition, as harmo nizing with the whole.

Dramatic compositions are of two kinds, Tragedy and Comedy. Tragedy is designed to fill the inind of the spectators with pity and terror; comedy to represent some amusing and connected tale. The muse of tragedy, therefore, deals in desolation and death, that of comedy is surrounded by the humorous, the witty, and the gay. It is to tragedy that we chiefly look for poetical embellishment, and it is there only that we look for the sublime. Accordingly, it is, with few exceptions, still composed of measured lines, while comedy is now written wholly in prose.

A Prologue is a short poem, designed as an introduction to a discourse or performance, chiefly the discourse or poem spoken before a dramatic performance or play begins.

An Epilogue is a speech, or short poem, addressed to the spectators by one of the actors, after the conclusion of a dramatic performance. Sometimes it contains a recapitulation of the chief incidents of the play.

Farce is the caricature of comedy, and is restrained by no law, not even those of probability and nature. Its object is to excite mirth and uproarous laughter. But, in some of its