Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, If Memory o'er their tomb 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 buft,

Back to its manfion call the fleeting breath?
Can Honour's voice provoke the filent duft,
Or flattery footh the dull cold ear of Death?

Perhaps in this neglected fpot is laid

Some heart once pregnant with celeftial fire Hands that the rod of empire might have fway'd, Or wak'd to ecítafy 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

Full many a gem of pureft ray ferene,

The dark unfathom'd caves of Ocean bear:
Full many a flower is born to blush unfeen,

And wafte its sweetness on the desert air.

Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast, The little tyrant of his fields withstood;

Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, Some Cromwell guiltlefs of his country's blood.

Th' applause of lift'ning senates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
To fcatter plenty o'er a fmiling land,

And read their hift'ry in a nation's eyes,

Their lot forbade: nor circumfcrib'd alone

Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd; Forbade to wade thro' flaughter to a throne,

And shut the gates of mercy to mankind,

The

The ftruggling pangs of confcious Truth to hide,
To quench the blufhes of ingenuous Shame,

Or heap the fhrine of Luxury and Pride
With incenfe kindled at the Mufe's flame.

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble ftrife,
Their fober wishes never learn'd to stray;
Along the cool fequefter'd vale of life
They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.

Yet ev❜n these 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 figh.

Their

Their name, their years, fpelt by th' unletter'd

Mufe,

The place of fame and elegy fupply;

And many a holy text around fhe ftrews,
That teach the ruftic moralift to die.

For who to dumb Forgetfulness a prey,
This pleafing anxious being e'er refign'd,
Left the warm precincts of the chearful day,
Nor caft one longing ling'ring look behind?

On fome fond breast the parting foul relies, Some pious drops the clofing eye requires; Ev'n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, Ev'n in our afhes* live their wonted fires.

* Ch'i veggio nel penfier, dolce mio fuoco, Fredda una lingua, & due begli occhi chiusi Rimaner doppo noi pien di faville.

For thee, who mindful of th' unhonour'd Dead
Doft in thefe lines their artless tale relate;
If chance, by lonely Contemplation led,
Some kindred fpirit fhall inquire thy fate,

Haply fome hoary-headed fwain may fay,
Oft have we feen him at the peep of dawn,

Brufhing with hafty steps the dews away

To meet the fun upon the upland lawn.

• There at the foot of yonder nodding beech, That wreathes its old fantaftic root fo high, • His liftlefs length at noon-tide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

Hard by yon wood, now fmiling as in fcorn,

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