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COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD. 93
Oft did the harvest to their fickle yield,
Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r,
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
Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid
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.
COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD. 95
Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless
Th' applause of lift'ning fenates to com
Their lot forbade; nor circumscrib'd alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes
confin'd; Forbade to wade thro' 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
ftrife, 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 sculp
ture deck's, Implores the palling tribute of a figh.
Their name, their years, spelt by th' uniet
ter'd Muse, The place of Fame and Elegy supply : And
many a holy text around the strews, That teach the ruftic moralist to die.
COUNTRY CHURCH.YARD. 97 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, lingering look behind?
On some fond breast the parting foul relies, Some pious drops the clofing eye requires ; 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 fome hoary-headed Swain may fay, • Oft have we seen him at the
*“ Ch'i veggio nel pensier, dolce mio fuoco " Fredda una lingua, et dụe begli occhi
chiusi « Rimaner doppo noi pien di faville."
Petrarch, Son. 160.