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Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,

Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,

The rude forefathers of the hamlet Neep. The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,

The swallow twitt'ring 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 busy housewife ply her ev'ning care: Nor children run to lisp their fire's return,

Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. Oft did the harvest to Their fickle yield ;

Their furrow off the stubborn glebe has broke; How jocund did they drive their teams afield !

How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! Let not ambition mock their useful toil,

Their homely joys, and destiny obscure ; Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile

The short and simple 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 tomt no trophies raise,
Were through the long-drawn aile and fretted vault,

The pealing anthem fwells the note of praise.
Can storied urn, or animated bust,

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?

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Can Honour's voice provoke the filent duft,

Or Aatt'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 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: Full many a fow'r is born to blush unseen,

And waste its sweetness on the desert air. Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast

The little tyrant of his fields with stood ; Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest ;

Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood. Th’applause of lift'ning senates to command,

The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,

And read their hist'ry in a nation's eyes. Their lot forbade; nor circumscrib'à 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 strugling 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 ftrife,

Their sober wishes never learn’d to Atray ; 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 ftill erected nigh, With uncouth rhimes and shapeless sculpture deck'd,

Implores the passing tribute of a figh. Their names, their years, spelt by the unletter*d Musen

The place of Fame and Elegy supply: And many a holy text around the strews,

That teach the ruftic moralist to dic. 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, ling'ring 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 alhes live their wonted fires.
For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead,

Doft in these lines their artless tale relate,
If, chance, by lonely contemplation led,

Some kindred 'spirit shall inquire thy fate; * Haply some hoary-headed fwain may say,

56 Of: bave we seen him, at the peep of dawn,
Brushing, with hafty steps, the dews away,
“ To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.
here, at the foot of yonder nodding beech,
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,

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" His liftless length at noontide would he stretch,

And pore upon the brook that bubbles by, " Hard by yon wood, now smiling, as in scorn,

“ Mutt'ring 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 hili,

“ Along the heath, and near his fav’rite tree; 166 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-yard path we saw him “ Approach, and read (for thou canst read) the lay,

" Gray'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn."

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THE EPITAPH.
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,

Heay'n did a recompense as largely send : He gave to Mis’ry, all he had, a tear,

He gain'd from Heav'n('twas all he withd)a Friend. No further seek his merits to disclose,

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, (There they alike in trembling hope repose)

The bofom of his father and his God.

THE PROGRESS OF POESY,

A PINDARIC ODE.

I. 1. Awake, Æolian lyre, awake, And give to Rapture all thy trembling Irings ! From Helicon's harmonious springs A thousand rills their mazy progress take : The laughing flow'rs, that round them blow, Drink life and fragrance as they flow. Now the rich stream of music winds along, Deep, majestic, fmooth, and strong, Thro' verdant vales, and Ceres' golden reign : Now rolling down the steep amain, Headlong, impetuous, see it pour : The rocks and nodding groves re-bellow to the roar.

1. 2.

Oh! sovereign of the willing soul,
Parent of sweet and folemn-breathing airs,
Enchanting shell! the fullen Cares,
And frantic Paffions, hear thy soft controul.
On Thracia's hills the Lord of War
Has curb’d the fury of his car,
And dropp'd his thirsty lance at thy command.
Perching on the sceptred hand
Of Jove, thy magic lulls the feather'd king
With ruffled plumes, and flagging wing:
Quench'd in dark clouds of Slumber lie
The terror of his beak, and lightning of his eye.

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