Can ftoried urn or animated bust Back to its manfion 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 spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'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 soul. Full many a gem of pureft ray ferene, The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear: Full many a flower is born to blush unfeen, And wafte its sweetness on the defert 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 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, 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 fupply: And many a holy text around she strews, That teach the ruftic moralift to die. For who to dumb Forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing anxious being e'er refign'd, Left the warm precincts of the chearful day, Nor caft one longing ling'ring look behind? On 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, 2 Ev'n in our Afhes live their wonted Fires. For thee, who mindful of th' unhonour'd Dead Doft in these lines their artlefs tale relate; If chance, by lonely contemplation led, Some kindred Spirit fhall inquire thy fate, z Ch'i veggio nel penfier, dolce mio fuoco, Petrarch. Son. 169. Haply |