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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,

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,

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

crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love.

That teach the rustic moralist to die. One morn I missed him on the 'cus

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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.


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: While, 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.



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 Gay hope is theirs by fancy fed,

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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

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

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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

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

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



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 How 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

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.

O little Martin Craghan!
I reck not if you swore,
Like Porsena of Clusium,

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


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.

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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 de-

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.

Illumed their faces, steeled each O'erwritten with the names he loved,


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,-

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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