But knowledge to their eyes her ample page, Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll; 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. Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast 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 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, With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd Muse, 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 resign'd, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing ling'ring look behind? On some fond breast the parting soul relies, For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd Dead, If chance, by lonely contemplation led, Haply some hoary-headed swain may say— To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. "There at the foot of yonder nodding beech, "Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Mutt'ring his wayward fancies he would rove; Now drooping, woful wan, like one forlorn, Or crazed 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: "The next, with dirges due, in sad array Slow through the church-yard path we saw him borne. Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay, Graved 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, He gain'd from Heav'n ('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. TRANSLATION FROM STATIUS. THIRD in the labours of the disc came on, With sturdy step and slow, Hippomedon; Artful and strong he poised the well-known weight, His vigorous arm he tried before he flung, The theatre's green height and woody wall The ponderous mass sinks in the cleaving ground, Cambridge, May 8, 1736. SONG. THYRSIS, when we parted, swore Ere the Spring he would return— Ah! what means yon violet flower, And the bud that decks the thorn? 'Twas the lark that upward sprung! 'Twas the nightingale that sung! Idle notes! untimely green! Why this unavailing haste? Western gales and skies serene Speak not always Winter past. Cease, my doubts, my fears to move; Spare the honour of my love. |