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How jocund did they drive their team a-field!

How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!


Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor Grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile,
The short and simple annals of the poor.


And all that beauty,

all that wealth, e'er gave,

Await alike the inevitable hour;—

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.


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 Honor's voice provoke the silent dust?

Or Flattery 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 swayed, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.

But Knowledge, to their eyes, her ample page,

Rich with the spoils of Time, did ne'er unroll; extreme poves

Chill Penury repressed their noble rage

And froze the genial current of the soul.

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