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Ere the moist footsteps of a tear
Shall plant their dewy traces there,
And prematurely pave the way
For sorrows of a riper day.

Oh! could a father's prayer répel

The eye's sad grief, the bosom's swell!
Or could a father hope to bear

A darling child's allotted care

Then thou, my babe, should'st slumber still,
Exempted from all human ill;

A parent's love thy peace should free,
And ask its wounds again for thee.

Sleep on, my child, thy slumber brief
Too soon shall melt away to grief—
Too soon the dawn of woe shall break,
And briny rills bedew thy cheek-
Too soon shall sadness quench those eyes,
That breast be agoniz'd with sighs,
And anguish o'er the beams of noon
Lead clouds of care-ah! much too soon.

Soon wilt thou reck of cares unknown,
Of wants and sorrows all thine own,
Of many a pang and many a woe,
That thy dear sex alone can know-
Of many an ill, untold, unsung,
That will not, may not find a tongue;
But, kept conceal'd without control,
Spread the fell cancers of the soul!

Yet be thy lot, my babe, more blest→→→
May joy still animate thy breast!
Still 'midst thy least propitious days
Shedding its rich inspiring rays!

A father's heart shall daily bear
Thy name upon its secret pray'r;
And, as he seeks his last repose,
Thine image ease life's parting throes.

Then hail, sweet miniature of life!
Hail, to this teeming stage of strife!
Pilgrim of many cares untold!
Lamb of the world's extended fold!
Fountain of hopes, and doubts, and fears,
Sweet promise of ecstatic years!

How fainly would I bend the knee,
And turn idolater to thee!

ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY

CHURCH-YARD.

GRAY.

THE Curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea,
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimm'ring landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;

Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r,
The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of such as, wand'ring near her secret bow'r,
Molest her ancient solitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap,

Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,
The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed,
The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,

No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her ev'ning care;
No children run to lisp their sire's return,

Or climb his knees, the envied kiss to share.

Oft did the harvest to their sickle 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 obscure;
Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile,
The short and simple annals of the poor.

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

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,
If mem'ry o'er their tomb no trophies raise,
Where thro' 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 sooth 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 unrol; Chill penury repress'd their noble rage,

And froze the genial current of the soul.

Full many a gem of purest ray serene,

The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear, Full many a flow'r is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

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.

Th' applause of list'ning senates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to despise,

To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,

And read their hist'ry in a nation's eyes,

Their lot forbade nor circumscrib'd alone
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd;
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 learnt to stray;
Along the cool sequester'd vale of life

They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

Yet e'en 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 names, 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.

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,
This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd,
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
Nor cast one longing, ling'ring look behind?

On some fond breast the parting soul relies,

Some pious drops the closing eye requires, Even from the tomb the voice of nature cries, Even in our ashes live their wonted fires.

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