Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, Their harrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; How jocund did they drive their team a-field! How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! Let not ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, If memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault The pealing anthem swells the notes of praise. Can storied urn and animated bust Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; But knowledge to their eyes her ample page, Chill penury repressed their noble rage, Full many a gem, of purest ray serene, The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear; Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless breast, The applause of listening senates to command, And read their history in a nation's eyes, Their lot forbade nor circumscribed alone The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, With incense kindled at the muse's flame. Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. Yet even these bones from insult to protect, Their name, their years, spelt by th' unlettered muse, And many a holy text around she strews, For who to dumb forgetfulness a prey On some fond breast the parting soul relies, For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonoured dead, Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate; Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, "There at the foot of yonder nodding beech, "Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love. "One morn I miss'd him on th' accustomed 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, THE EPITAPH. Here rests his head, upon the lap of earth, Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere; He gained from heaven, 'twas all he wished, a friend. No farther 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. THE BARD. 1. "RUIN seize thee, ruthless king! Though fanned by Conquest's crimson wing, GRAY. Helm, nor hauberk's' twisted mail, On a rock, whose haughty brow With haggard eyes the poet stood; (Loose his beard, and hoary hair Streamed, like a meteor, to the troubled air,) "Hark! how each giant oak and desert cave "Cold is Cadwallo's tongue, That hushed the stormy main: Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed: Mountains, ye mourn in vain 1 The hauberk was a texture of steel ringlets, or rings interwoven, forming a coat of mail, that sat close to the body, and adapted itself to every motion. 2 Gilbert de Clare, surnamed the Red, Earl of Gloucester and Hertford, son-inlaw to King Edward. 3 Edmond de Mortimer, Lord of Wigmore. |