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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.