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Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless breast,
The little tyrant of his fields withstood, -
Some mute, inglorious Milton, - here may rest;
Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood.

The applause of listening senates to command;
The threats of pain and ruin to despise;
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,

And read their history in a nation's eyes,

Their lot forbade: nor circumscribed alone

Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined; Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, And shut the gates of mercy on mankind;

The struggling pangs of conscious Truth to hide;
To quench the blushes of ingenuous Shame;

Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride,
With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.


Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,
Their sober wishes never learned to stray;
Along the cool, sequestered vale of life,

They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.


Their name, their years, spelt by the unlettered Muse,

The place of fame and elegy supply;

And many a holy text around she strews,

That teach the rustic moralist to die.

For who, to dumb Forgetfulness a prey,
This pleasing, anxious being e'er resigned;
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,

Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind?

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