Beneath thofe rugged elms, that ewe-tree's fhade,
Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap,
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
The rude forefathers of the hamlet fleep.

The breezy call of incenfe-breathing Morn,
The swallow twitt'ring from the ftraw-built shed,
The cock's fhrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
No more fhall roufe them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth fhall burn,
Or bufy housewife ply her evening care;
No children run to lifp their fire's return,
Or climb his knees the envied kifs to fhare.

Oft did the harvest to their fickle yield;
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke:
How jocund did they drive their team afield!
How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

Let not ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys and destiny obfcure;
Nor grandeur hear, with a difdainful fmile,
The fhort and fimple annals of the poor,

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of
pow'r,
And all that beauty, all that wealth c'er gave,
Await alike th'inevitable hour,

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

H

Nor

Nor you, ye proud, impute to thefe the fault, If Mem'ry o'er their tomb no trophies raife, . Where thro' the long-drawn ifle, and fretted [vault, The pealing anthem fwells the note of praife.

Can ftoried urn, or animated bust,

Back to its manfion call the fleeting breath?
Can honour's voice provoke the filent duft,
Or flatt'ry footh the dull cold ear of Death?

Perhaps in this neglected fpot is laid
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;
Hands, that the rod of empire might have fway'd,
Or wak'd to ecstacy the living lyre.

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page
Rich with the fpoils of Time did ne'er unroll;
Chill Penury reprefs'd their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the soul.

Full many a gem of pureft ray ferene
The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear;
Full many a flower is born to blush unfeen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breaft
The little Tyrant of his fields withstood;
Some mute inglorious Milton here may reft,
Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood.

Th'

Th' applaufe of lift'ning fenates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to defpife,
To scatter plenty o'er a fmiling land,
And read their history 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 struggling pangs of conscious Truth to hide,
To quench the blushes of ingenuous Shame,
Or heap the fhrine of Luxury and Pride
With incenfe kindled at the Mufe's flame.

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble ftrife;
Their fober wishes never learn'd to stray,
Along the cool fequefter'd vale of life
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

Yet ev'n these bones from infult to protect,
Some frail memorial ftili erected nigh,
With uncouth rhymes and fhapelefs fculpture
Implores the paffing tribute of a figh. deck'd,

Their name, their years, fpelt by th'unletter'd
The place of fame and elegy fupply; [Mufe,
And many a holy text around the ftrews,
That teach the ruftic moralift to die.

For

For who to dum forgetfulness a prey,
This pleafing anxious being e'er refign'd,
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day.
Nor caft one longing ling'ring look behind?

On fome fond breast the parting foul relies,
Some pious drops the clofing eye requires ;
Ev'n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,
Ev'n in our afhes live their wonted fires.

For thee, who mindful of th'unhonour'd Dead
Doft in these lines their artless tale relate;
If chance, by lonely Contemplation led,
Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,

Happly fome hoary-headed swain may say,
Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn,

Brushing with hafty steps the dew away

• To meet the fun upon the upland lawn.

There at the foot of yonder nodding beech, • That wreaths its old fantastic roots fo high, • His liftless length at noontide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that bubbles by.

Hard by yon wood, now fmiling, as in fcorn, 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 hill, Along the heath, and near his favourite 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 Slow through the church-way path we faw him [borne. Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay, • Grav'd on the stone, beneath yon aged thorn.'

CHAPTER X.

THAMES the most lov'd of all the Ocean's fons

By his old fire, to his embraces runs;
Hafting to pay his tribute to the fea,
Like mortal life to meet eternity:

Nor are his bleffings to his banks confin'd,
But free and common as the fea or wind,
Where he, to boast or to disperse his stores,
Full of the tribute of his grateful fhores,
Vifits the world, and in his flying tow'rs
Brings home to us and makes both Indies ours;
So that to us no thing, no place is strange,
While his fair bofom is the World's exchange.
O could I flow like thee, and make thy ftream
My great example, as it is my theme!

Thought