Oft did the harveft to their fickle yield, Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke: How jocund did they drive their team afield! How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! Let not ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obfcure; Nor grandeur hear with a difdainful fmile, The fhort and fimple annals of the poor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Awaits alike th' inevitable hour,

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
Forgive, ye proud, th' involuntary fault,
If memory to thefe no trophies raise,
Where thro' the long-drawn ifle and fretted vault
The pealing anthem fwells the note of praife.
Can ftoried urn or animated buft

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
Can honour's voice provoke the filent duft,
Or Flatt'ry footh the dull cold ear of death?
Perhaps in this neglected fpot is laid
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire,
Hands that the reins of empire might have fway'd,
Or wak'd to extafy the living lyre.

But knowledge to their eyes her ample page
Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll;
Chill penury reprefs'd their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the foul.

Full many a gem of pureft ray serene, The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear: Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the defart air.

Some village-HAMPDEN that with dauntless breast The little tyrant of his fields withstood; Some mute inglorious MILTON here may rest, Some CROMWELL guiltlefs of his country's blood. Th' applause of lift'ning fenates to command, The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o'er a fmiling land, And read their hift'ry in a nation's eyes.

Their lot forbad: nor circumfcrib'd alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd:" Forbad to wade through flaughter to a throne, And shut the gates of mercy on mankind,

The struggling pangs of confcious truth to hide, To quench the blushes of ingenuous fhame, Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride With incenfe, kindled at the muse's flame. Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, Their fober wishes never learn'd to stray; Along the cool fequefter'd vale of life They kept the noiseless tenor of their way,

Yet ev❜n these bones from infult to protect Some frail memorial ftill erected nigh, With uncouth rhimes and shapeless sculpture deck'd, Implores the paffing tribute of a figh.

Their name, their years, fpelt by th' unletter'd

mufe,

The place of fame and elegy supply :
And many a holy text around she strews,
That teach the ruiftc moralift to dye.

For who to dumb forgetfulness a prey,
This pleafing anxious being e'er refign'd,
Left the warm precincts of the chearful day,
Nor caft one longing ling'ring look behind?

On fome fond breaft the parting foul relies, Some pious drops the clofing eye requires ; Ev'n from the tomb the voice of nature cries, Awake and faithful to her wonted fires.

For thee, who mindful of th' unhonour'd dead Doft in thefe lines their artless tale relate; If chance, by lonely contemplation led, Some kindred spirit fhall inquire thy fate,

Haply fome hoary-headed fwain may say,
Oft have we feen him at the peep of dawn
Brushing with hafty steps the dews away,
To meet the fun upon the upland lawn.

There at the foot of yonder nodding beech
That wreathes its old fantastic roots fo high,
His liftlefs length at noontide would he ftretch,
And pore upon the brook that babbles by.
⚫ Hard by yon wood, now fmiling as in fcorn,
Mutt'ring his wayward fancies he wou'd rove,
Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn,
'Or craz'd with care, or trofs'd in hopeless love.

⚫ One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill, Along the heath, and near his fav'rite tree; Another came; nor yet befide the rill,

• Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he. • The next with dirges due in fad array,

• Slow thro' church-way path we saw him borne. Approach and read (for thou canft read) the lay, • Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.

• There scatter'd oft, the earliest of the year,

By hands unfeen, are show'rs of violets found;
The red-breaft loves to build and warble there,
And little footsteps lightly print the ground.

THE EPІТАРН.

"Here refts his head upon the lap of earth "A youth to fortune and to fame unknown: "Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth, "And melancholy mark'd him for her own.

Large was his bounty, and his foul fincere, "Heav'n did a recompence as largely fend: "He gave to mis'ry (all he had) a tear:

He gain'd from heav'n ('twas all he wifh'd) a friend. "No farther feek his merits to disclose, "Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, "(There they alike in trembling hope repose) "The bofom of his Father and his God.

ON THE DEATH OF

FREDERIC PRINCE OF WALES.

WRITTEN AT PARIS, BY DAVID LORD VISCOUNT STORMONT, OF CH. CH. OXON.

L

ITTLE I whilom deem'd, my artless zeal

Should woo the British Muse in foreign land To ftrains of bitter argument, and teach

The mimic Nymph, that haunts the winding verge And oozy current of Parifian Seine,

To fyllable new founds in accent ftrange.

But fad occafion calls: who now forbears
The laft kind office? who but confecrates
His off'ring at the fhrine of fair Renown
To gracious FREDERIC rais'd; tho' but compos'd
Of the waste flourets, whose neglected hues
Chequer the lonely hedge, or mountain slope?

Where are thofe hopes, where fled th' illufive scenes That forgeful Fancy plan'd, what time the bark Stem'd the falt wave from Albion's chalky bourn? Then filial Piety and parting Love

Pour'd the fond pray'r; "Farewell, ye lefs'ning

" cliffs,