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,
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 madding crowd's ignoble strife,
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,
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd,
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
Their name, their years, spell'd by the unletter'd muse,
The place of fame and elegy supply;
And many a holy text around she strews,
To 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, lingering 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 ashes 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 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 bubbles 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 cross'd in hopeless love! "One morn I miss'd him on the accustom'd hill, Along the heath, and near his favourite 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 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 recompense as largely send;
He gave to misery all he had, a tear;
He gain'd from heaven, 'twas all he wish'd, a friend.
No further 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.
66. BRUCE TO HIS ARMY.
SCOTS, wha hae wi' Wallace bled,
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led;
Welcome to your gory bed,
Or to victory!
Now's the day, and now's the hour,
See the front of battle lour;
See approach proud Edward's power,
Chains and slavery!
Wha will be a traitor-knave?
Wha can fill a coward's grave?
Wha sae base as be a slave?
Let him turn and flee!
Wha for Scotland's king and law
Freedom's sword would strongly draw,
Freeman stand or freeman fa',
Let him follow me!
By oppression's woes and pains,
By your sons in servile chains,
We will drain our dearest veins,
But they shall be free!
Lay the proud usurper low!
Tyrants fall in every foe!
Liberty's in every blow!
Let us do, or dee!
67. THE INVOCATION.
ANSWER me, burning stars of night,
Where is the spirit gone,
That past the reach of human sight,
Even as a breeze hath flown?.
And the stars answer'd me- "We roll
In light and power on high; But of the never-dying soul Ask things that cannot die!"
O many-toned and chainless wind,
Thou art a wanderer free!
Tell me, if thou its place can find
Far over mount and sea?.
And the wind murmur'd in reply-
"The blue deep have I cross'd,
And met its barks and billows high,
But not what thou hast lost!"
Ye clouds, that gorgeously repose
Around the setting sun,
Answer! be ye a home for those
Whose earthly race has run?-
The bright clouds answer'd-"We depart,
We vanish from the sky:
Ask what is deathless in thy heart,
For that which cannot die!"
Speak, then, thou voice of God within,
Thou of the deep low tone!
Answer me through life's restless din,
Where is the spirit flown?—
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