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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.

The 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 history in a nation's eyes,

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;

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.

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Far from the madding 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.

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Their name, their years, spelt by the unlettered Muse,

The place of fame and elegy supply;

And many a holy text around she strews,

That teach the rustic moralist to die.

For who, to dumb Forgetfulness a prey,
This pleasing, anxious being e'er resigned;
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,

Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind?

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