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For them no more the blazing hearth fhall burn,

Or bufy housewife ply her evening-care: No children run to lifp their fire's return, Or climb his knees, the envied kifs to share.

Oft did the harveft to their fickle yield, Their furrow oft the ftubborn glebe hast 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 boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er Await alike th' inevitable hour. [gave 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 thro' the long-drawn ifle and fretted vault,

The pealing anthem fwells the note of praise.

Can ftoried urn or animated bust

Back to its manfion call the fleeting breath? Can Honour's voice provoke the filent dust, 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
fway'd,

Or wak'd to ecstasy the living lyre.

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 unfeen,
And wafte its sweetness in the defart air.

Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless

breast

The little Tyrant of his fields withstood; Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, 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 fcatter plenty o'er a fmiling land,
And read their hift'ry in a nation's eyes,

Their lot forbade; nor circumfcrib'd alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd;

Forbade to wade thro' flaughter 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 fhame, Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride With incenfe kindled at the Muse's flame.

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble ftrife,

Their fober wishes never learn'd to stray; Along the cool fequefter'd vale of life They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

Yet ev❜n these bones from infult to protect Some frail memorial still erected nigh, With uncouth rhimes and fhapeless sculp ture deck'd,

Implores the paffing tribute of a figh.

Their name, their

ter'd Mufe,

years, fpelt by th' unlet

The place of Fame and Elegy fupply :

And many a holy text around she strews,

That teach the ruftic moralift to die.

For who, to dumb Forgetfulness a prey, This pleafing anxious being e'er refign'd, Left the warm precincts of the chearful day, Nor caft one longing, lingering look behind?

On fome fond breaft 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 Afhes* live their wonted fires.

For thee, who mindful of th' unhonour'd Dead,

Doft in these lines their artlefs 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 feen him at the peep of dawn

*"Ch'i veggio nel penfier, dolce mio fuoco Fredda una lingua, et due begli occhi

chiufi

"Rimaner doppo noi pien di faville."

Petrarch, Son. 160.

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