1691-1763] JOHN BYROM. From VERSES ON PLAGIARISM. [Written as if before Lauder's forgery was discovered; and supposing that Milton needed defending.] The man of sense alone Lights on a happy thought, 1684-1765] EDWARD YOUNG. NIGHT THOUGHTS. I. I. Tired Nature's sweet restorer, balmy Sleep! Night II. Days-when gone Gone! they ne'er go! when past they haunt us still. Blest son of foresight, Whose yesterdays look backward with a smile. 1702-1751] PHILIP DODDRIDGE. To-morrow, Lord, is thine, Lodged in thy sovereign hand; The present moment flies, Oh, make thy servants truly wise, JOHN DYER. From GRONGAR HILL. Ever charming, ever new, When will the landscape tire the view? . . Each give each a double charm, WILLIAM SHENSTONE. From A PASTORAL. Disappointment. Perhaps I was void of all thought, Perhaps it was plain to foresee, [1714-1763 That a nymph so complete would be sought Beware how you loiter in vain, Amid nymphs of a higher degree ; It is not for me to explain How fair and how fickle they be. Absence. So sweetly she bade me adieu, THOMAS GRAY, ELEGY IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD, The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The moping owl does to the moon complain Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering 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 twittering from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. 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 ! 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, 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 through the long-drawn aisle 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? Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire: Hands, that the rod of empire might have swayed, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre. But knowledge to their eyes her ample page, Chill penury repressed their noble rage, Full many a gem of purest ray serene, The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear; Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast The applause of listening senates to command, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, Their lot forbade nor circumscribed alone With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. Yet, ev'n these bones from insult to protect, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked, Their name, their years, spelt by the unlettered Muse, And many a holy text around she strews, For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing anxious being e'er resigned, For thee who, mindful of the unhonoured dead, |