Thy form benign, oh, goddess! wear, To soften, not to wound, my heart, Exact my own defects to scan, What others are, to feel, and know myself a man. ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD. THE Curfew tolls the knell of parting day, Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower, Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering 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 twittering 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 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 a-field! How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, Can storied urn or animated bust Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust, Or Flattery soothe 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 unroll; 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: Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast Th' applause of listening senates to command, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, And read their history in a nation's eyes, Their lot forbad: nor circumscrib'd alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd; The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, They kept the noiseless tenour of their way. Yet ev❜n these bones from insult to protect, Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd Muse, And many a holy text around she strews, For who, to dumb Forgetfulness a prey, On some fond breast the parting soul relies, Some pious drops the closing eye requires; For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead, Haply some hoary-headed swain-may say, "There at the foot of yonder nodding beech, "Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove, Now drooping woeful wan, like one forlorn, Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless love. "One morn I miss'd him on the 'custom'd hill, Along the heath and near his favourite tree; Another came; nor yet beside the rill, Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he: "The next with dirges due in sad array [borne. Slow through the church-way path we saw him Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay, Gray'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." THE EPITAPH. HERE rests his head upon the lap of Earth, Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, He gain'd from Heaven ('t was all he wish’d) a friend. |