That mocks the tear it forc'd to flow;
And keen Remorfe with blood defil'd,
And moody Madness laughing wild
Amid fevereft woe.
Lo, in the vale of years beneath
A grily troop are seen,
The painful family of Death,
More hideous than their queen:
This racks the joints, this fires the veins,
That every labouring finew ftrains,
Thofe in the deeper vitals rage:
Lo, Poverty, to fill the band,
That numbs the foul with icy hand,
And flow-confuming Age.
To each his fuff'rings: all are men,
Condemn'd alike to groan;
The tender for another's pain,
Th' unfeeling for his own.
Yet ah! Why fhould they know their fate?
Since forrow never comes too late,
And happiness too fwiftly flies:
Thought would deftroy their paradife.
No more; where ignorance is blifs,
'Tis folly to be wife.
WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD.
THE curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd winds flowly o'er the lea,
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
Now fades the glimmering landscape on the fight,
And all the air a folemn ftillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his drony flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the diftant folds;
Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r,
The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of fuch, as wand'ring near her fecret bow'r,
Moleft her ancient folitary reign.
Beneath thofe rugged elms, that yew tree's fhade,
Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap,
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
The rude forefathers of the hamlet fleep.
The breezy call of incenfe-breathing Morn,
The swallow twitt'ring from the ftraw-built fhed,
The cock's fhrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.
For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or bufy housewife ply her evening care:
No children run to lifp their fire's return,
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.
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,
Await alike th' 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 tombs no trophies raife,
Where thro' the long-drawn ifle, and fretted vault,
The pealing anthem fwells the note of praise.
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 fpot is laid
Some heart once pregnant with celeflial fire ;
Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd,
Or wak'd 'to ecftafy 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 ferene
The dark unfathom'd caves of Ocean bear :
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And wafte its sweetness on the defert air.
Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breaft
The little Tyrant of his fields withstood;
Some mute inglorious Milton here may reft,
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 history in a nation's eyes,
Their lot forbade : nor circumfcrib'd alone
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd;
Forbade 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 Shame,
Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride
With' incenfe kindled at the Mufe'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 thefe bones from infult to protect,
Some frail memorial ftill erected nigh,
With uncouth rhymes and fhapeless sculpture deck'd,
Implores the paffing tribute of a sigh.
Their name, their years, fpelt by th' unletter'd Muse,
The place of fame and elegy fupply;
And many a holy text around she strews,
That teach the ruftic moralist to die.
For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,
This pleafing anxious being e'er refign'd,
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
Nor caft one longing ling'ring look behind
On fome fond breaft the parting foul relies,
Some pious drops the closing eye requires ;
Ev'n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,
Ev'n in our afhes live their wonted fires.
For thee, who mindful of th' unhonour'd Dead
Doft in thefe lines their artlefs 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 dew 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 listlefs length at noontide would he stretch,
And pore upon the brook that bubbles by.
Hard by yon wood now fmiling as in scorn,
Mutt'ring his way-ward fancies he would rove; Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn, 'Or craz'd with care, or crofs'd in hopeless love..
"One morn I mifs'd him on the cuftom'd hill,
Along the heath, and near his favourite 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' the church-way path we saw him borne.
Approach and read (for thou can't read) the lay,
Grav'd on the stone, beneath yon aged thorn.'
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