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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 tenour of their way. Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect,
Some frail memorial still erected nigh, [deck'd, With uncouth rhymes, and shapeless sculpture
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. Their names, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd
The place of fame and elegy supply: [Muse, 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, lingering look behind ? On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
Some pious drops the closing eye requires,
E’en in our ashes live their wonted fires.
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;
Some kindred spirit shall enquire thy fate, Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, « Oft have we seen him at the
of dawn, Brushing with hasty steps the dew away,
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.
“There at the foot of yonder nodding beech,
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, His listless length at noontide would he stretch,
And pore upon the brook that bubbles by. “Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,
Muttering his wayward fancies, he would rove; Now drooping, woful wan, like one forlorn,
Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless love. “ One morn I miss'd him on th' accustom'd hill,
Along the heath, and near his favourite tree;
up the lawn, nor at the wood, was he: “The next, with dirges due, in sad array, Slow through the church-yard path we saw him
borne. Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay,
Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.”
Here rests his head upon the lap of earth,
A youth to fortune and to fame unknown: Fair science frown'd not on his humble birth,
And melancholy mark'd him for her own. Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,
Heaven did a recompense as largely send : He gave to misery all he had a tear, He gain’d from Heav'n ('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. Gray.
LOVE OF COUNTRY.
my own, my native land;
From wandering on a foreign strand ?
down To the vile dust, from whence he sprung, Unwept, unhonour'd, and unsung. . Sir W. Scott.
WHERE IS HE? “Man giveth up the ghost, and where is he?"-JOB. And where is he? not by the side
Of her whose wants he lov'd to tend ; Not o'er those valleys wandering wide,
Where, sweetly lost, he oft would wend; That form belov'd he marks no more,
Those scenes admir'd no more shall see; Those scenes are lovely as before,
And she as fair;—but where is he? No, no; the radiance is not dim,
That us'd to gild his favourite hill; The pleasures that were dear to him,
Are dear to life and nature still:
But, ah! his home is not as fair,
Neglected must his gardens be, The lilies droop and wither there,
And seem to whisper," where is he?"
His was the pomp, the crowded hall,
But where is now this proud display? His riches, honours, pleasures, all
Desire could frame; but where are they? And he, as some tall rock that stands
Protected by the circling sea, Surrounded by admiring bands,
Seem'd proudly strong—and where is he? The church-yard bears an added stone,
The fire-side shows a vacant chair; Here sadness dwells, and weeps alone,
And Death displays his banner there: The life is gone, the breath has fled,
And what has been no more shall be; The well-known form, the welcome tread,
O where are they, and where is he? H. Neele.
RECOLLECTIONS OF BOYHOOD.
Be it a weakness, it deserves some praise,
The little ones, unbutton'd, glowing hot,
THE SABBATH MORNING,
How still the morning of the hallow'd day!