10 Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower, exogreen Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade Where heaves, the turf in many a mouldering heap, 15 Each in his narrow cell forever laid 20 crumble The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. 25 Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield 30 Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke: How jocund did they drive their team afield! 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, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, 35 Await alike th' inevitable hour. The paths of glory lead but to the grave. charge Nor you, ye Proud, impute to these the fault, 40 The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. Church Can storied urn or animated bust Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust, Or Flatt'ry soothe the dull cold ear of death? 45 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 waked to ecstasy the living lyre. But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page 50 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: 55 Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, 60 And waste its sweetness on the desert air.) Some village Hampden, that with dauntless. The little tyrant of his fields withstood, Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood. Th' applause of list'ning senates to command, 65 Their lot forbad: nor circumscrib'd alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd; 70 Forbad to wade through slaughter to a throne, The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray; 75 Along the cool sequester'd vale of life. · 80 They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd muse, The place of fame and elegy supply: 85 For who to dumb Forgetfulness a prey, 90 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, For thee, who mindful of th' unhonour'd dead, Dost in these lines their artless tale relate; 95 If chance, by lonely contemplation led, 100 Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, Haply some hoary-headed Swain may say, 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 babbles by. 105 "Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, 110 Mutt'ring 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 missed him on the custom'd hill, Along the heath, and near his fav'rite 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 Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne: 115 Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay, Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." 120 THE EPITAPH Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, He gain'd from heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) a 125 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. THE BARD (From Odes, 1757) I. 1. "Ruin seize thee, ruthless King! Confusion on thy banners wait, Tho' fann'd by Conquest's crimson wing They mock the air with idle state. 5 Helm, nor Hauberk's twisted mail, Nor even thy virtues, Tyrant, shall avail 10 To save thy secret soul from nightly fears, Such were the sounds, that o'er the crested pride He wound with toilsome march his long array. Stout Glo'ster stood aghast in speechless trance: "To arms!" cried Mortimer, and couch'd his quiv'ring lance. |