Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incenfe-breathing morn, No more fhall rouse them from their lowly bed. Oft did the harvest to their fickle yield; Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; Their homely joys, and destiny obfcure; The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r, The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, Can ftoried urn, or animated buft, Back to its manfion call the fleeting breath? Can Honour's voice provoke the filent duft, Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire : Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd, 'Or wak'd to ecftafy the living lyre. But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page, And froze the genial current of the soul. Full many a gem, of pureft ray ferene, The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear: Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breaft Th' applaufe of lift'ning fenates to command, To fcatter plenty o'er a fmiling land, And read their hift'ry in a nation's eyes. Their lot forbade; nor circumfcrib'd alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd; Forbade to wade through flaughter to a throne, And fhut the gates of mercy on mankind : The ftrugling pangs of confcious truth to hide, To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, Or heap the shrine of luxury and. pride With incenfe kindled at the Mufe's flame. Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, Their fober wishes never learn'd to stray; hAlong the cool fequefter'd vale of life They kept the noiseless tenour of their way. With uncouth rhimes and shapeless sculpture deck'd, Their names, their years, spelt by the unletter'd Muse, For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, This pleafing anxious being e'er refign'd, Some pious drops the clofing eye requires ; For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead, ere, at the foot of yonder nodding beech, "His liftless length at noontide would he stretch, “ And pore upon the brook that bubbles by. "Hard by yon wood, now smiling, as in scorn, “Mutt'ring his wayward fancies, he would rove; "Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn, “Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless love. * One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hili, “Along the heath, and near his fav'rite tree ; Another came; nor yet befide the rill, "Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he. "The next, with dirges due, in fad array, (bórne, "Slow through the church-yard path we saw him "Approach, and read (for thou canst read) the lay, "Gray'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.” THE EPITAPH. HERE refts his head upon the lap of Earth, He gain'd from Heav'n('twas all he wish'd) a Friend. No further feek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, (There they alike in trembling hope repose) The bofom of his Father and his God. THE PROGRESS OF POESY, A PINDARIC ODE. I. 1. AWAKE, Æolian lyre, awake, And give to Rapture all thy trembling frings! A thousand rills their mazy progrefs take: Now the rich ftream of mufic winds along, Thro' verdant vales, and Ceres' golden reign: Now rolling down the steep amain, Headlong, impetuous, fee it pour : The rocks and nodding groves re-bellow to the roar. I. 2. Oh! fovereign of the willing foul, Parent of sweet and folemn-breathing airs, And frantic Paffions, hear thy foft controul. Has curb'd the fury of his car, And dropp'd his thirsty lance at thy command. Of Jove, thy magic lulls the feather'd king The terror of his beak, and lightning of his eye. |