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Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust,

Or Flatt'ry soothe the dull cold ear of Death? 12. 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. 13. 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. 14. Full many a gem of purest ray serene

The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear ;
Full many a flow'r is born to blush unseen,

And waste its sweetness on the desert air, 15. Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast

The little tyrant of his fields withstood ;
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,

Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood. 16. Th' applause of list'ning senates to command,

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

And read their hist’ry in a nation's eyes, 17. Their lot forbade: nor circumscrib'd alone

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

And shut the gates of mercy on mankind; 18. 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. 19. Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife

Their saber wishes never learn’d to stray ;

Along the cool sequester'd vale of life

They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. 20. Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect

Some frail memorial still erected nigh,
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture

deck'd

Implores the pleasing tribute of a sigh. 21. Their names, their years, spelt by th’ unletter'd

Muse,
The place of fame and elegy supply ;
And many a holy text around she strews,

That teach the rustic moralist to die.

22. 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 ? 23. On some fond breast the parting soul relies,

Some pious drops the closing eye requires :
Ev'n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,

Ev’n in our ashes live their wonted fires.

24. For thee, who, mindful of the unhonour'd dead,

Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;
If chance, by lonely Contemplation led,

Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, 25. Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,

« Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn, Brushing with hasty steps the dew away,

To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. 26. “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.

27. “Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,

Mutt'ring his wayward fancies he would rove; Now drooping, woful, wan, like one forlorn,

Or craz’d with care or cross'd in hopless love.

28.“ One morn, I miss'd him on th' accustom'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; 29. “ The next, with dirges due, in sad array,

Slow through the churchway path we saw him

borne. Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay,

Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.”

THE EPITAPH.

30. 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. 31. Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,

Heav'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 wish’d, a

friend.

32. 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.

It is said that Wolfe, the conqueror of Quebec, declared

that he would rather be the author of this poem than take Quebec. (See Fifth Reader, p. 138.)

MARSTON MOOR.

[WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED, born 1801, gave early promise

of great distinction, which was cut short by his death, 15th

July, 1839.] 1. To horse ! to horse ! Sir Nicholas; the clarion's note

is high! To horse! to horse ! Sir Nicholas; the big drum

makes reply! Ere this, hath Lucas marched, with his gallant

cavaliers, And the bray of Rupert's trumpets grows fainter in

our ears.

To horse ! to horse ! Sir Nicholas! White Guy is at

the door, And the raven whets his beak o'er the field of

Marston Moor. 2. Up rose the Lady Alice from her brief and broken

prayer, And she brought a silken banner down the narrow

turret-stair; Oh! many were the tears that those radiant eyes

had shed, As she traced the bright word “ Glory” in the gay

and glancing thread; And mournful was the smile which o'er those lovely

features ran, As she said, “It is your lady's gift; unfurl it in

the van !”

3. “It shall flutter, noble lady, where the best and

boldest ride, Midst the steel-clad files of Skippon, the black

dragoons of pride; The recreant heart of Fairfax shall feel a sicklier

qualm, And the rebel lips of Oliver give out a louder psalm,

When they see my lady's gewgaw flaunt proudly on

their wing, And hear her loyal soldiers shout, “For God and for

the King !” 4. 'Tis soon! The ranks are broken ! along the royal

line They fly, the braggarts of the court ! the bullies of

the Rhine ! Stout Langdale's cheer is heard no more, and Astley's

helm is down, And Rupert sheathes his rapier with a curse and

with a frown; And cold Newcastle mutters, as he follows in their

flight,“ The German boar had better far have supped in

York to-night." 5. The knight is left alone, his steel-cap cleft in twain, His good buff jerkin crimson'd o'er with many a

gory stain; Yet still he waves his banner, and cries, amid the rout, “For Church and King, fair gentlemen! spur on,

and fight it out!” And now he wards a Roundhead's pike, and now

he hums a stave, And now he quotes a stage-play,--and now he fells

a knave! 6. Heaven aid thee now, Sir Nicholas ! thou hast no

thought of fear; Heaven aid thee now, Sir Nicholas ! for fearful odds

are here ! The rebels hem thee in, and, at every cut and thrust, “Down, down,” they cry, “with Belial! down with

him to the dust!” “I would," quoth grim old Oliver, “that Belial's

trusty sword This day were doing battle for the saints and for the

Lord !"

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