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Gay Hope is theirs, by Fancy fed,
Lefs pleafing when poffefs'd;
The tear forgot as foon as shed,
The funshine of the breast:
Theirs buxom Health of rofy hue,
Wild Wit, Invention ever new,
And lively Cheer of Vigour born;
The thoughtless day, the eafy night,
The fpirits pure, the flumbers light,
That fly th' approach of morn.

Alas! regardless of their doom,
The little victims play!

No fense have they of ills to come,
No care beyond to-day:

Yet, fee! how all around them wait,
The Minifters of human fate,

And black Misfortune's baleful train !
Ah! fhew them where in ambush stand
To feize their prey the murth'rous band!
Ah! tell them, they are men !

These shall the fury Paffions tear,
The vultures of the mind,
Difdainful Anger, palid Fear,
And Shame that fkulks behind;

Or pining Love shall wafte their youth,
Or Jealousy with ranking tooth,
That inly gnaws the secret heart,
And Envy wan, and faded Care,
Grim vifag'd comfortless Defpair,
And Sorrow's piercing dart,

Ambition

Ambition this fhall tempt to rife,
Then whirl the wretch from high,
To bitter Scorn a facrifice,
And grinning Infamy.

The ftings of Falsehood those shall try,
And hard Unkindness' alter'd eye,
That mocks the tear it forc'd to flow;
And keen Remorfe with blood defil'd,
And moody Madness laughing wild
Amidft fevereft woe.

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The painful family of Death,
More hideous than their queen :

This racks the joints, this fires the veins,
That every labouring finew ftrains,
Those in the deeper vitals rage;

Lo! Poverty, to fill the band,
That numbs the foul with icy hand,
And flow-confuming Age.

To each his fuff'rings: all are men,

Condemn'd alike to groan;

The tender for another's pain,

Th' unfeeling for his own.

Yet, ah! why should they know their fate!
Since Sorrow never comes too late,

And happiness too fwiftly flies:
Thought would destroy their paradife.-
No more where ignorance is blifs,
'Tis folly to be wise.

M. 6

GRAY.

CHAP.

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WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD.

THE curfew tolls the knell of parting day,

The lowing herd wind flowly o'er the lea,
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the fight,
And all the air a folemn ftilnefs holds,

Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the diftant folds;

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r,
The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of fuch, as wand'ring near her fecret bow'r,
Moleft her ancient folitary reign.

Beneath thofe 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 fleep.

The breezy call of incenfe-breathing Morn,
The swallow twitt'ring from the ftraw built fhed,
The cock's fhrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
No more fhall roufe them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth fhall burn,
Or bufy housewife ply her evening care:

No

No children run to lifp their fire's return,

Or climb his knees the envied kifs to fhare.

Oft did the harvest to their fickle yield,
Their furrow oft the ftubborn glebe has broke :
How jocund did they drive their team a- field!
How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy ftroke!

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and deftiny obfcure:
Nor Grandeur hear with a difdainful fmile,
The short and fimple annals of the poor.

The boaft 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.

Nor you, ye proud! impute to thefe the fault,
If Mem❜ry o'er their tomb no trophies raise,
Where thro' the long-drawn aifle and fretted vault,
The pealing anthem fwells the note of praise.

Can ftoried urn or animated buft,

Back to its manfion 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 celeftial fire;
Hands, that the rod of Empire might have fway'd,
Or wak'd to ecftafy the living lyre.

But

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page
Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll;
Chill Penury reprefs'd their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the foul.

Full many a gem of pureft ray ferene;
The dark unfathom'd caves of Ocean bear
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the defert air.

Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breaft,
The little tyrant of his fields withstood;
Some mute inglorious Milton here may reft,
Some Cromwell guiltlefs of his country's blood.

Th' applaufe of lift'ning fenates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
To scatter plenty o'er a fmiling land,
And read their history in a nation's eyes,

Their lot forbade; nor circumfcrib'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 ftruggling pangs of confcious Truth to hide,.
To quench the blushes of ingenuous Shame,
Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride
With incenfe kindled at the Mufe's flame:

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,
Their fober wishes never learn'd to ftray:

Along

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