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The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,
Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,
Along the cool sequester'd vale of life
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.
Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect
Some frail memorial still erected nigh,
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd Muse, The place of fame and elegy supply:
And many a holy text around she strews,
That teach the rustic moralist to die.