ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD.

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled Tower,
The moping Owl does to the Moon complain.
Of such, as wand'ring near her secret Bower,
Molest her ancient solitary Reign.

Beneath those rugged Elms, that Yew-tree's 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 Swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built Shed,
The Cock's shrill Clarion, and the echoing Horn,
No more shall rouse them from their lowly Bed.

ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD.

For them no more the blazing Hearth shall burn,
Or busy Housewife ply her evening Care;
No children run to lisp their Sire's return,
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 afield!
How bowed the Woods beneath their sturdy Stroke!

ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD.

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 Power,
And all that Beauty, all that Wealth e'er gave,

Awaits alike th' inevitable Hour:

The Paths of Glory lead but to the Grave.

Nor you, ye Proud, impute to These the Fault,
If Memory o'er their Tomb no Trophies raise,
Where thro' the long-drawn Aisle, and fretted Vault,
The pealing Anthem swells the Note of Praise.

ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD.

Can storied Urn, or animated Bust,

Back to its Mansion call the fleeting Breath?
Can Honour's voice provoke the silent Dust,
Or Flattery soothe 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 waked 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.

ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD.

Full of many a Gem of purest Ray serene
The dark unfathom'd Caves of Ocean bear:
Full many a Flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert Air.

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.