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Now fades the glimmering landscape on the fight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his drony flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds ; -
Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow's
The mopeing owl does to the moon complain
Of such, as wand’ring near her secret bow'r,
Motest her ancient, solitary reign.
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 Neep.
The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn,
The swallow twittering from the straw-built thed,
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 houswife ply her evening care :
No children run to lisp their fire's return,
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.
Oft did the harvest to their fickle 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 pow'r,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Await alike th' inevitable hour.
The paths of glory lead but to the grave,
Jor you, ye Proud, impute to These the fault, If Mem'ry o'er their Tomb no Trophies raise, Where through the long-drawn ille and fretted vault The pealing anthem fwells the note of praise.
Can storied urn or animated buft
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
Can Honour's voice provoke the filent duft,
Or Flatt'ry footh 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 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,
The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear ;
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desart 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.
Th’ 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 histry in a nation's eyes
Their lot forbad: nor circumscrib'd alone
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd;
Forbad to wade through Naughter 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 fame.
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 ev’n these bones from insult to protect
Some frail memorial still erected nigh,
With uncouth 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 dye.
For who to dumb Forgetfulness a prey,
This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd,
Left the warm precincts of the chearful day,
Nor cast one longing ling’ring look behind ?
On some fond breast the parting foul relies,
Some pious drops the closing eye requires ;
'Ev'n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,
Ev'n in our Alhes live their wonted Fires.
For thee, who inindful of th' 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 fwain may fay,
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 rears its old fantastic roots so high,
‘His listless length at noon-tide would he stretch,
* And pore upon the brook that babbles by.