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 note of praise.

Can storied urn, or animated bust,

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

Or flatt'ry soothe 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 sway'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 repress'd their noble rage,

And froze the genial current of the soul.