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. I
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 mem❜ry o'er their tomb no trophies raise', Where, through the long-drawn aisle, 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? | Can honour'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 em'pire might have sway'd, Or wak'd to ecstasy the living lyre. I
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. I
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,.a |
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,. |
a Desert air; not dez-zer-tair.
The applause of list'ning senates to command', | The threats of pain, and ruin to despise', | To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land',
And read their hist'ry in a nation's eyes', ¡
Their lot forbade, nor circumscrib'd alone' Their growing virtues ; | but, their crimes' confin'd', 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 madding crowd's ignoble strife', I ('Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray',) Along the cool, sequester'd vale of life', |
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way,. |
Yet e'en these bones, from insult to protect', | Some frail memorial still', erected nigh', J With uncouth rhymes, and shapeless sculpture deck'd', | Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. |
Their names', their years', spell'd by the unletter'd muse',| The place of fame, and elegy, supply; | And many a holy text around she strews', I That teach the rustic moralist to die. I
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'; | Some pious drops the closing eye requires. ;| E'en from the tomb, the voice of nature cries', ] E'en in our ash'es live their wonted fires. |
For thee who, mindful of the unhonour'd 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 step, 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 bubbles by,. |
Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn', | Mutt'ring his wayward fancies, he would rove';; Now drooping, wo'ful, wan, like one forlorn',
Or craz❜d with care, or cross'd in hopeless love
One morn I miss'd him on the accustom'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', | "Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn."
Here rests 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 soul, sincere -| Heaven did a rec'ompense as largely send He gave to Mis'ry all he had', a tear; |
He gain'd from Heav''n | (''t was all he wish'd) | 2a friend. I
No farther seek his merits to disclose', I
Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, | (There they alike in trembling hope repose) | 2The bosom of his Father, and his God. |
DOUGLAS'S ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF.
My name is Norval; | on the Grampian hills | My father feeds his flocks; a frugal swain | Whose constant cares | were to increase his store', | And keep his only son, myself, at home. :| For I had heard of bat'tles, and I long'd To follow to the field some warlike lord; | And heaven soon granted what my sire denied! |
This moon, which rose last night, round as my shield, | Had not yet fill'd her horns, when by her light, | A band of fierce barbarians from the hills, | Rush'd like a torrent down upon the vale', Sweeping our flocks, and herds. The shepherds fled For safety, and for succour. I, alone',
With bended bow, and quiver full of arrows, | Hover'd about the enemy, and mark'd
The road he took then hasted to my friends | Whom, with a troop of fifty chosen men, |
I met advancing. The pursuit I led, |· Till we o'ertook the spoil-encumber'd foe.
We fought, and conquer'd. | Ere a sword was drawn, | An arrow from my bow had pierc'd their chief | Who wore, that day, the arms which now I wear. | Returning home in triumph, I disdain'd The shepherd's slothful life.;
That our good king had summon'd his bold peers | To lead their warriors to the Carron side, | I left my father's house, and took with me | A chosen servant to conduct my steps, -1 'Yon trembling coward who forsook his master. I "Journeying with this intent, | I pass'd these towers, And, heaven-directed, came this day to do | The happy deed that gilds my humble name. |
THE GRAVE OF FRANKLIN.
(MISS C. H. WATERMAN.)
No chisell❜d urn is rear'd to thee; | No sculptur'd scroll enrolls its page | To tell the children of the free', I Where rests the patriot, and the sage. | Far in the city of the dead', |
A corner holds thy sacred clay; | And pilgrim feet, by reverence led', | Have worn a path that marks the way. | There, round thy lone, and simple grave', | Encroaching on its marble gray', | Wild plantain weeds, and tall grass wave', ] And sunbeams pour their shadeless ray. | Level with earth, thy letter'd stone' And hidden oft by winter's snow`- Its modest record tells alone' |
Whose dust it is that sleeps below.* |
That name's enough that honour'd name' No aid from eu'logy requires : |
'Tis blended with thy country's fame, |
And flashes round her lightning spires,. |
*The body of Franklin lies in Christ-Church burying-ground, corner of Mulberry and Fifth street, Philadelphia. The inscription upon his tomb-stone is as follows:
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