ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. 83 The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke ; How jocund did they drive their team a-field! How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! Let not Ambition mock their useful toil Their homely joys and destiny obscure; The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Can storied urn or animated bust Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page, 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; And read their history in a nation's eyes— Their lot forbade; nor circumscribed alone With incense kindled at the Muses' flame. Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. Yet even these bones from insult to protect, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd, Their name, their years, spelt by th' unlettered Muse, ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. On some fond breast the parting soul relies, Some pious drops the closing eye requires; Even from the tomb the voice of nature cries; Even in our ashes live their wonted fires. For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead, Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, Öft have we seen him at the peep of dawn, There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech, Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Or crazed with care, or cross'd in hopeless love. One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill, Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he. The next, with dirges due, in sad array, 85 Slow through the churchway-path we saw him borne : Approach, and read (for thou canst read) the lay Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." THE EPITAPH. Here rests his head upon the lap of earth,— Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere ; He gained from heaven ('twas all he wish'd) 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 bosom of his Father and his God. WILLIAM COLLINS. Born A.D. 1720, died A.D. 1756. Ode to Evening. Ir aught of oaten stop, of pastoral song, Thy springs, and dying gales; O nymph reserved, while now the bright-hair'd sun Now air is hush'd, save where the weak-eyed bat, His small but sullen horn, As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path, To breathe some soften'd strain, Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening vale, May not unseemly with its stillness suit; As, musing slow, I hail ODE TO EVENING. For when thy folding-star arising shews Who slept in buds the day, 87 And many a nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge, And sheds the freshening dew, and, lovelier still, The pensive pleasures sweet, Prepare thy shadowy car; Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene; By thy religious gleams. Or if chill blustering winds, or driving rain, And hamlets brown, and dim-discover'd spires, The gradual dusky veil. While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont, While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves, And rudely rends thy robes; So long, regardful of thy quiet rule, Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling Peace, And love thy favourite name! |