III.

What boots it then, in every clime,
Thro' the wide spreading wafte of time,
Thy martial glory, crown'd with praise,
Still fhone with undiminish'd blaze?
Thy tow'ring spirit now is broke,
Thy neck is bended to the yoke.
What foreign arms could never quell,
civil rage, and rancour fell.

By

IV.

The rural pipe, and merry lay
No more shall chear the happy day:
No focial scenes of gay delight
Beguile the dreary winter night:
No ftrains, but those of sorrow flow,
And nought be heard but founds of woe;
While the pale phantoms of the flain
Glide nightly o'er the filent plain.

V.

Oh baneful caufe, oh! fatal morn,
Accurs'd to ages yet unborn!
The fons, against their fathers ftood,
fhed his children's blood.

The parent

Yet, when the rage of battle ceas'd,
The victor's foul was not appeas'd:
The naked and forlorn muft feel

Devouring flames, and murd'ring fteel!

VI.

The pious mother doom'd to death,
Forfaken, wanders o'er the heath,
The bleak wind whistles round her head,
Her helpless orphans cry for bread,
Bereft of shelter, food, and friend,
She views the fhades of night defcend,
And stretch'd beneath th' inclement skies,
Weeps o'er her tender babes and dies.

VII.

Whilft the warm blood bedews my veins,
And unimpair'd remembrance reigns;
Refentment of my country's fate,
Within my filial breast shall beat;
And, fpite of her infulting foe,
My fympathizing verfe fhall fhall flow,
"Mourn, hapless CALEDONIA, mourn
"Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn."

A N ELE GY.

WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH YARD.

HE Curfeu tolls, the knell of parting day,

TH

The lowing herd winds flowly o'er the lea, The plowman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness, and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landfcape on the fight, And all the air a folemn stillness holds; Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, Or drowsy tinklings lull the diftant folds.

Save, that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r The mopeing owl does to the moon complain Of fuch, as wand'ring near her fecret bow'r, Moleft her ancient folitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, The rude forefather's of the hamlet fleep.

The breezy call of incenfe-breathing morn, 'The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed, The cock's fhrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouze them from their lowly bed. For them no more the blazing hearth fhall burn, Or busy housewife ply her ev'ning care: No children run to lifp their fire's return, Or climb his knees the envied kifs to fhare.

Oft did the harveft to their fickle yield, Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; How jocund did they drive their team afield! How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! Let not ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joy, and deftiny obfcure; Nor grandeur hear with a difdainful fmile, The fhort and fimple annals of the poor.

The boats of heraldry, the pomp of power, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Awaits alike th' inevitable hour,

The paths of glory, lead but to the grave.
Forgive, ye proud, the involuntary fault,
If memory to thefe no trophies raife,

Where thro' the long-drawn ifle and fretted vault,
The pealing anthem fwells the note of praise.
Can ftoried urn, or animated buft

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 reins of empire might have sway'd,
Or wak'd to extafy 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 unseen, And wafte its sweetness on the defart air.

Some village-HAMPDEN that with dauntless breaft The little tyrant of his fields withstood:

Some mute inglorious MILTON here

may rest, Some CROMWELL guiltless of his country's blood. Th' applaufe of lift'ning fenates to command, The threats of pain and ruin to defpife, To scatter plenty o'er a fmiling land,

And read their hift'ry in a nation's eyes

Their lot forbad: nor circumfcrib'd alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd; Forbad to wade through flaughter to a throne, And fhut the gates of mercy on mankind,

The ftruggling pangs of confcious truth to hide, To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride With incenfe, kindled at the mufe'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 ftill erected nigh, With uncouth rhimes and shapelefs fculpture deck'd, Implores the paffing tribute of a figh.