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Sure you may pity what you can't approve,
The cruel consequence of furious fove.
Think the bold wretch, that could so greatly dare,
Was tender, faithful, ardent, and sincere :
Think when I held the pistol to your breaft,
Had I been of the world's large rule poffess’d,
That world had then been yours, and I been blest !
Think that my life was quite below my care,
Nor fear'd I any hell beyond despair.
If these reflections, though they seize you late,
Give some compassion for your Arthur's fate :
Enough you give, nor ought I to complain ;
You pay my pangs, nor have I dy'd in vain.
ELEGY on a COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD.
'HE curfeu tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd wind slowly o’er the lea, The plowman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
Now fades the glimm’ring landscape on the fight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his drony flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the diftant folds ;
Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r
The mopping owl does to the moon complain
Of such, as wand'ring near her secret bow'r,
Molest her ancient, folitary reign.
Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-trees 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 sleep.
The breezy call of incense breathing morn,
The fwallow twitt'ring from the straw-built fhed,
The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
No more Thall rouse them from their lowly bed.
For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her ev’ning care :
No children run to lisp their fire's return,
Or clinb his knees the envied kiss to share.
Oft did their harvest to their fickle 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;
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 tomb no trophies raise,
Where thro' the long-drawn isle and fretted vault
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.
Can storied urn or animated bust
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath ;
Can Honour's voice provoke the silent duft,
Or Flatt'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 flow'r is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the defart air.
Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless breaft,
The little Tyrant of his fields withstood;
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,
Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood.
Th' applaufe 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 forbad ; nor circumscrib'd alone
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd;
Forbad to wade through slaughter to a throne,
And Thut the gates of mercy on mankind.
The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,
To quench the blushes of ingenious 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 fober wishes never learn'd to ftray ;
Along the cool sequefter'd vale of life
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.
Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect
Some frail memorial ftill erected nigh,
With uncouth rhimes and shapeless sculpture deck's,
Implores the passing tribute of a figh.
Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd Mufe,
The place of fame and elegy supply :
And many a holy text around the strews,
That teach the rustic moralift to die.
For who'to dumb forgetfulness a prey,
This pleasing anxious being e'er resign’d,
Left the warm precincts of the chearful day,
Nor cast one longing, ling’ring look behind?
On some fond breast the parting foul relies,
Some pious drops the closing eye requires :