Now fades the glimmering landscape on And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Await alike th' inevitable hour:- Save where the beetle wheels his droning Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the flight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower Of such as, wandering near her secret Molest her ancient solitary reign. Beneath those rugged elms, that yew tree's Where heaves the turf in many a moul dering heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, fault If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, Where through 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 Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre: The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing But Knowledge to their eyes her ample horn, No more shall rouse them from their page Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll; For them no more the blazing hearth shall Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage, burn Or busy housewife ply her evening care: Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, How jocund did they drive their team How bow'd the woods beneath their Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, smile 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 flower is born to blush un seen, And waste its sweetness on the désert 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 The short and simple annals of the Th' applause of list'ning senates to com Their lot forbade : nor circumscribed alone | If chance, by lonely Contemplation led, Their growing virtues, but their crimes Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, confined; 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 learn'd 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 name, their years, spelt by th' unlet 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 lingering look behind? On some fond breast the parting soul relies, Some pious drops the closing eye requires; E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonor'd Large was his bounty, and his soul sin dead, Dost in these lines their artless tale re late, cere ; Heaven did a recompense as largely send: He gave to Misery all he had,—a tear, He gain'd from Heaven-'twas all he wish'd-a friend. No farther seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailties from their dread abode (There they alike in trembling hope repose), The bosom of his Father and his God. LINES WRITTEN IN RICHMOND CHURCHYARD, YORKSHIRE. METHINKS it is good to be here; If thou wilt, let us build,—but for whom? Nor Elias nor Moses appear, But the shadows of eve that encompass the gloom, 633 Unto Sorrow?-The dead cannot grieve; Not a sob, not a sigh meets mine ear, Which compassion itself could relieve. Ah! sweetly they slumber, nor hope, love, nor fear, The abode of the dead and the place of the Peace, peace is the watchword, the only tomb. one here! And look for the sleepers around us to rise; The second to Faith, which ensures it fulfill'd; And the third to the Lamb of the great sacrifice, Who bequeathed us them both when he rose to the skies. HERBERT KNOWLES. HALLOWED GROUND. WHAT'S hallow'd ground? Has earth a clod Its Maker meant not should be trod But the tinsel that shines on the dark cof- Unscourged by superstition's rod fin-lid. To bow the knee? That's hallow'd ground where, mourn'd and | And place our trophies where men kneel To Heaven!-But Heaven rebukes my miss'd, Though Death's pale horse lead on the What's hallow'd ground? 'Tis what gives The charging cheer, chase, Shall still be dear. birth To sacred thoughts in souls of worth! ny ! Peace! Independence! Truth! go forth, And your high priesthood shall make All hallow'd ground! THOMAS CAMPBELL. EPITAPH UPON HUSBAND AND RICHARD CRASHAW. ELEGY TO THE MEMORY OF AN WHAT beck'ning ghost, along the moon- Useless, unseen, as lamps in sepulchres; From these perhaps (ere Nature bade Fate snatch'd her early to the pitying sky. And sep'rate from their kindred dregs below; So flew the soul to its congenial place, But thou, false guardian of a charge too good, Thou mean deserter of thy brother's blood! breath, These cheeks now fading at the blast of death! Cold is that breast which warm'd the world before, And those love-darting eyes must roll no more. Thus, if eternal justice rules the ball, Thus shall your wives, and thus your children fall: Invites my steps, and points to yonder On all the line a sudden vengeance waits, glade? 'Tis she!—but why that bleeding bosom Why dimly gleams the visionary sword? And frequent hearses shall besiege your gates: There passengers shall stand, and pointing say (While the long fun'rals blacken_all the way), "Lo! these were they, whose souls the Furies steel'd, And cursed with hearts unknowing how to yield." Thus unlamented pass the proud away, Why bade ye else, ye pow'rs! her soul The gaze of fools, and pageant of a day! aspire Above the vulgar flight of low desire? abodes, The glorious fault of angels and of gods: So perish all, whose breast ne'er learn'd to For others' good, or melt at others' woe. What can atone (O ever-injured shade!) |