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Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride

With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife

Their sober wishes never learned to stray;

Along the cool, sequestered vale of life

They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect

Some frail memorial still erected nigh,

With uncouth rhymes and shapeless

sculpture decked, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

Their name, their years, spelt by the

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

strews,

That teach the rustic moralist to die.

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,

This pleasing anxious being e er resigned,

Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,

Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind?

On some fond breast the parting soul relies;

Some pious drops the closing eye requires;

E'en from the tomb the voice of

Nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted

fires.

For thee, who, mindful of the un

honored dead, Dost in these lines their artless tale

relate; [led, If chance, by lonely contemplation Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy

fate,—

Haply some hoary-headed swain may

say,

Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn,

Brushing with hasty steps the dews away,

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 noon-tide would he stretch,

And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,

Muttering his wayward fancies he

would rove; Now drooping, woful-wan, like one

forlorn,

Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love.

One morn I missed him on the 'customed hill,

Along the heath, and near his favorite 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,— 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

A youth, to fortune and to fame unknown;

Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth,

And Melancholy marked him for her own.

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere;

Heaven did a recompense as largely send:

He gave to misery all he had, a tear, He gained from Heaven, 't was all he wished, a friend.

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.

Ode on The sprria.

Lo! where the rosy-bosomed hours

Fair Venus' train, appear, Disclose the long-expecting flowers

And wake the purple year! The Attic warbler pours her throat Responsive to the cuckoo's note,

The untaught harmony of spring: Whi le,whispering pleasure as they fly, Cool zephyrs through the clear blue sky

Their gathered fragrance fling.

Where'er the oak's thick branches

stretch A broader, browner shade, Where'er the rude and moss-grown

beech

O'er canopies the glade, Beside some water's rushy brink With me the Muse shall sit, and think

(At ease reclined in rustic state) How vain the ardor of the crowd, How low, how little are the proud,

How indigent the great;

Still is the toiling hand of Care;

The panting herds repose:
Yet hark, how thro' the peopled air

The busy murmur glows:
The insect youth are on the wing,
Eager to taste the honeyed spring

And float amid the liquid noon: Some lightly o'er the current skim, Some show their gaily-gilded trim

Quick-glancing to the sun.

To Contemplation's sober eye

Such is the race of man:
And they that creep, and they that fly

Shall end where they began.
Alike the busy and the gay
But flutter thro' life's little day,

In fortune's varying colors drest: Brushed by the hand of rough mischance

Or chilled by age, their airy dance
They leave, in dust to rest.

Methinks I hear in accents low

The sportive kind reply: Poor moralist! and what art thou?

A solitary fly! Thy joys no glittering female meets, No hive hast thou of hoarded sweets.

No painted plumage to display: On hasty wings thy youth is flown; Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone,—

We frolic while 'tis May.

THE PLEASURE ARISING FROM
VICISSITUDE.

Smiles on past Misfortune's brow
Soft Reflection's hand can trace,

And o'er the cheek of Sorrow throw
A melancholy grace;

While hope prolongs our happier hour,

Or deepest shades, that dimly lower And blacken round our weary way, Gilds with a gleam of distant day.

Still, where rosy Pleasure leads,

See a kindred Grief pursue; Behind the steps that Misery treads

Approaching Comfort view: The hues of bliss more brightly glow Chastised by sabler tints of woe," And blended form, with artful strife, The strength and harmony of life.

See the wretch that long has tost

On the thorny bed of pain, At length repair his vigor lost

And breathe and walk again: The meanest floweret of the vale, The simplest note that swells the gale, The common sun, the air, the skies, To him are opening Paradise.

ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON.

Ye distant spires, ye antique towers,
That crown the wat'ry glade,

Where grateful Science still adores
Her Henry's holy shade!

And ye, that from the stately brow

Of Windsor's heights the expanse below

Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey, Whose turf, whose shade, whose

flowers among Wanders the hoary Thames along

His silver winding way.

Ah, happy hills! ah, pleasing shade!

Ah, fields beloved in vain!
Where once my careless childhood
strayed,
A stranger yet to pain!
I feel the gales, that from ye blow,
A momentary bliss bestow,
As waving fresh their gladsome
wing,

My weary soul they seem to sooth,
And, redolent of joy and youth,
To breathe a second spring.

Say, Father Thames (for thou hast

seen

Full many a sprightly race, Disporting on thy margent green,

The paths of pleasure trace), Who foremost now delight to cleave With pliant arm thy glassy wave?

The captive linnet which enthral? What idle progeny succeed To chase the rolling circle's speed,

Or urge the flying ball?

While some, on earnest business bent,

Their murm'ring labors ply
'Gainst graver hours, that bring con-
straint
To sweeten liberty:
Some bold adventurers disdain
The limits of their little reign,
And unknown regions dare de-
scry,

Still as they run they look behind,
They hear a voice in every wind,
And snatch a fearful joy.

Gay hope is theirs by fancy fed,

Less pleasing when possest; The tear forgot as soon as shed,

The sunshine of the breast: Theirs buxom health, of rosy hue, Wild wit, invention ever new,

And lively cheer, of vigor born; The thoughtless day, the easy night, The spirits pure, the slumbers light

That fly the approach of morn.

Alas! regardless of their doom

The little victims play!
No sense have they of ills to come.

Nor care beyond to-day:
Yet see how all around them wait
The ministers of human fate

And black misfortune's baleful train!

Ah, show them where in ambush stand,

To seize their prey, the murderous band!

Ah, tell them they are men!

These shall the fury passions tear,
The vultures of the mind,

Disdainful anger, pallid fear,
And shame that skulks behind;

Or pining love shall waste their youth,

Or jealousy with rankling tooth

That inly gnaws the secret heart, And envy wan, and faded care, Grim-visaged comfortless despair, And sorrow's piercing dart.

Ambition this shall tempt to rise,
Then whirl the wretch from high

To bitter Scorn a sacrifice
And grinning infamy.

The stings of falsehood those shall try,

And hard unkindness' altered eye, That mocks the tear it forced to flow;

And keen remorse with blood defiled, And moody madness laughing wild Amid severest woe.

Lo, in the Vale of Years beneath

A grisly troop are seen, The painful family of Death,

More hideous than their queen:

This racks the joints, this fires the veins.

That every laboring sinew strains,
Those in the deeper vitals rage:
Lo, poverty, to fill the band,
That numbs the soul with icy hand,
And slow-consuming age.

To each his sufferings: all are men,
Condemned alike to groan;

The tender for another's pain,

The unfeeling for his own. Yet, ah! why should they know their fate,

Since sorrow never comes too late, And happiness too swiftly flies? Thought would destroy their paradise!

No more,— where ignorance is bliss, 'Tis folly to be wise.

Zadel Barnes Gustafson.

LITTLE MARTIN CRAGHAN.

One reads to me Macaulay's " Lays"
With fervid voice, intoning well

The poet's fire, the vocal grace;
They hold me like a spell.

'Twere marvel if in human veins

Could beat a pulse so cold It would not quicken to the strains, The flying, fiery strains, that tell Bow Romans "kept the bridge so well

In the brave days of old."

The while I listened, till my blood, Plunged in the poet's martial mood,

Rushed in my veins like wine, I prayed,— to One who hears, I wis; "Give me one breath of power like this

To sing of Pittston mine!"

A child looks up the ragged shaft,
A boy whose meagre frame

shrinks as he hears the roaring
draught
That feeds the eager flame.

He has a single chance; the stakes

Of life show death at bay One moment; then his comrade takes

The hope he casts away.

For while his trembling hand is raised,
And while his sweet eyes shine,

There swells above the love of life
The rush of love divine,—

The thought of those unwarned, to whom

Death steals along the mine.

0 little Martin Craghan!
I reck not if you swore,

Like Porsena of ('lusium,

By gods of mythic lore;
But well I ween as great a heart

Beat your small bosom sore.

And that your bare brown feet scarce felt

The way they bounded o'er.

I know you were a hero then, Whate'er you were before;

And in God's sight your flying feet Made white the cavern floor.

The while he speeds that darksome way,

Hope paints upon his fears Soft visions of the light of day;

Faint songs of birds he hears; In summer breeze his tangled curls

Are blown about his ears.

He sees the men; he warns; and now,

His duty bravely done, Sweet hope may paint the fairest scene

That spreads beneath the sun.

Back to the burning shaft he flies;

There bounding pulses fail; The light forsakes his lifted eyes;

The glowing cheek is pale.

With wheeling, whirling, hungry flame,

The seething shaft is rife:
Where solid chains drip liquid fire,
What chance for human life?

To die with those he hoped to save, Back, back, through heat and gloom,

To find a wall,— and Death and he
Shut in the larger tomb!

He pleaded to be taken in
As closer rolled the smoke;

In deathful vapors they could hear
His piteous accents choke.

And they, with shaking voice, refused;

And then the young heart broke.

Oh love of life! God made it strong,

And knows how close it pressed; And death to those who love life least

Is scarce a welcome guest.

One thought of the poor wife, whose head

Last night lay on his breast: A quiver runs through lips that morn By children's lips caressed.

These things the sweet strong thoughts of home,—

Though but a wretched place, To which the sad-eyed miners come

With Labor's laggard pace,— Remembered in the cavern gloom,

Illume the haggard face,—

llhuued their faces, steeled each heart.

O God! what mysteries Of brave and base make sum and part

Of human histories!
What will not thy poor creatures do

To buy an hour of breath!
Well for us all some souls are true

Above the fear of death!

He wept a little,— for they heard
The sound of sobs, the sighs

That breathed of martyrdom complete
Unseen of mortal eyes,—

And then, no longer swift, his feet Passed down the galleries.

He crept and crouched beside his mule,

Led by its dying moan;
He touched it feebly with a hand

That shook like palsy's own. God grant the touch had power to make

The child feel less alone!

Who knoweth every heart, He knows What moved the boyish mind;

What longings grew to passion-throes For dear ones left behind;

How hardly youth and youth's desires

Their hold of life resigned.

Perhaps the little fellow felt
As brave Horatius thought,

When for those dearer Roman lives
He held his own as nought.

For how could boy die better

Than facing fearful fires
To save poor women's husbands

And helpless children's sires?

Death leaned upon him heavily;

But Love, more mighty still,— She lent him slender lease of life

To work her tender will.

He felt with sightless, sentient hand Along the wall and ground,

And there the rude and simple page For his sweet purpose found.

O'erwritten with the names he loved,

Clasped to his little side.
Dim eyes the wooden record read

Hours after he had died.

Thus from all knowledge of his kind.

In darkness lone and vast, from life to death, from death to life.

The little hero passed.

And, while they listened for the feet
That would return no more,

Far off they fell in music sweet
Upon another shore.

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