-thou, who hast partaken of the devotedness of parental love, and hast seen those parents, whose hopes were on thee, snatched by the hand of death suddenly from thy side;-do thou go to the church-yard in which they repose, and shed thy bitter tears of sorrow over their grave. Then, if thou hast ever given a pang to the bosom whereon thou wert nourished, then will each unkindness, which thou mayst, for a time, have forgotten, rush into thy mind,—and thou wilt weep more sadly, because the conviction will be in thy heart, that it is vain.

5. Thy tears can not recall one moment of undutiful behavior; nor shed a balm over the sorrows of that heart which thy unkindness has wounded. Thou mayst pluck from their turf the wild weeds, and

"Strew with flowers the dismal spot;"

but it will be of no avail; they have passed from thee forever, and the voice of thy sorrow penetrates not into the grave, but is lost in the night-wind which sighs around it.

"There is a calm for those that weep,"

and within the silent tomb all will rest alike; the man who has wandered through the world deserted and forlorn, with none to soothe the anguish of his heart,-no hand to shield him from the blast of affliction,-no voice to whisper in his ear the gentle words of friendship, beneath the grassy turf will rest as sweetly as he on whom Fortune has lavished her proudest gifts; and the poor beggar who has endured the scoffings of the rich, will repose as calmly as that unfeeling mortal who, with a callous heart, spurned him from his presence.

7. The maiden blooming in all the loveliness of youth,the aged man whose head is silvered with the frosts of many winters,the heart whose owner enjoyed all the blessings of. life, and they who have drank deeply of the cup of affliction,—

all must alike share the quiet of the tomb. Neither youth nor beauty can stay the hand of death, and often the lovely, like the sweet flower of spring blighted by the destroying blast, are the soonest to fade.

8. And then, too, many a link of affection's chain will lie scattered. There will repose the babe on whom a parent's eyes have gazed in fondness, over whose gentle form a mother has bent, and formed, in the dreaming of her maternal love many a scene of happiness; but

"All that's bright must fade,"

and, like the rose-bud on which the canker-worm has fed, beneath the blighting hand of death, the object of a mother's hopes will exchange the warm resting-place of affection for the dark, cold chambers of the grave.

9. It is then that the widow muses upon the hours of departed happiness, which, contrasted with her present mournful state, appear with increased charms. It is then she indulges in those dreams which recall days long since departed till, to use the words of the poet,

"She thinks

She sees him, and, indulging the fond thought,
Clings still more closely to the senseless clay !"

10. We may gaze on the beautiful scenes which the lavish hand of nature has formed around us, and our thoughts may be raised to heaven, and the prayer of thanksgiving and gratitude flow from our tongues; but it is only above the resting. place of the silent dead that the musings of the heart will turn to that moment when the ray of life will be extinguished, and we shall depart from this vale of tears, even as a summer cloud which passeth away, and returneth not.”

EXERCISE LXXXIX.

ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD.

1. The curfew tolls the knell of parting day;
The lowing herds wind slowly o'er the lea;
The plowman homeward plods his weary way,

And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

2. Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight
And all the air a solemn stillness holds;
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds:

3. Save, that from yonder ivy-mantled tower,

The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such as, wand'ring near her secret bower, Molest her ancient, solitary reign.

GRAY.

8. Beneath those rugged elms—that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a moldering heap, Each in his narrow cell forever laid,

The rude forefathers of the hamlet-sleep.

6. The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn,

The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,

No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

6. For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her evening care;

Nor children run to lisp their sire's return,
Or climb his knees, the envied kiss to share.

7. Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield;

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke;

How jocund did they drive their team a-field!
How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

8. 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.

9. The toast of heraldry, the pomp of power,

And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Await, alike, the inevitable hour

The paths of glory lead--but to the grave.

10. Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,
If Mem'ry o'er their tomb no trophies raise,
Where, through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault.
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

11. Can storied urn, or animated bust,

Back to its mansion call the fleeting bréath?
Can Honor's voice provoke the silent dust,

Or Flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of death?

12 Perhaps, in this neglected spot, is laid

Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; Hands, that the rod of empire might have swayed, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre:

13. But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page,
Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll;

Chill penury repressed their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the soul.

14. Full many a gem, of purest ray serene,

The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear;
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

15. 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.

16. Th' applause of listening senates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,
And read their hist'ry in a nation's eyes,

17. Their lot forbade; nor circumscribed alone

Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined;
Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind;

18. The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hidɛ To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride,

With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.

19. Far from the madd'ning crowd's ignoble strife. Their sober wishes never learned to stray;

Along the cool, sequestered vale of life,

They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

20. Yet even these bones from insult to protect,
Some frail memorial still erected nigh,

With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked,
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

21 Their name, their years, spelled by the unlettered Musa, The place of fame and elegy supply;

And many a holy text around she strews,
That teach the rustic moralist to die.

22 For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,
This pleasing, anxious being e'er resigned;