Once on a time (so runs the fable) A frugal mouse upon the whole, He brought him bacon (nothing lean), And cry'd, "I vow you're mighty neat. (This doctrine, friend, I learn'd at court.") May yield, God knows, to strong temptation. Our courtier walks from dish to dish, } Tells all their names, lays down the law, "That jelly's rich, this malmsey healing, He stuffs and swills, and stuffs again. (It was by providence they think, "An't please your honour," quoth the peasant, "This same desert is not so pleasant: An ELEGY written in a COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD. (GRAY) THE Curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me. Now fades the glimm'ring landscape on the sight,. And all the air a solemn stillness holds; Save where the beetle wings his drony flight, Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring 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 twitt'ring 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, Or busy housewife ply her ev'ning 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 bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! 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 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 isle and fretted vault The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. Can storied urn or animated bust Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd, 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 Chill penury repress'd their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul. Full many a gem of purest ray serene, 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. Th' applause of list'ning senates to command, Their lot forbad: nor circumscrib'd alone The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, Yet, ev'n these bones from insult to protect, Some frail memorial still erected nigh, With uncough rhimes 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, On some fond breast the parting soul relies, 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, Dost in these lines their artless tale relate, If chance, by lonely Contemplation led, Some kindred spirit shall enquire thy fate, Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, < There at the foot of yonder nodding beech, Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, 'One morn I miss'd him on th' accustom'd hill, Along the heath, and near his fav'rite tree: Another came; nor yet beside the rill, 6 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 borne. Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay, Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.' The EPITAPH. HERE rests his head upon the lap of Earth |