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. I The boast of her aldry, | the pomp of power,

And all that beauty, I all that wealth', e'er gave, Await, alike, the inevitable hour,

1 The paths of glory ,, lead, but to the grave. I Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, /

If mem'ry o'er their tomb no trophies raise', 1 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? 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'; 1.
Hands that the rød of em'pire might have sway'di, 1

Or wak’d 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. 1 Full many a gem of purest ray serene',

The dark, unfathom'd caves of o'cean, 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. I

The applause of list’ning senates to command', |

The threats of pain, and ruin to despise', ] To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land',

And read their histry in a nation's eyes', | Their lot forbade. - | nor circumscrib'd alone i

Their growing virtues; but, their crimes'confin'd', / Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne', !

And shut the gates of mercy on mankind;
The struggling pangs of conscious truth' to hide, I

To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame', /
Or heap the shrine of luxury, and pride',

With incense , kindled at the muse's flame. I Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife', !

('Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray',) * Along the cool, sequester'd vale of life', |

They kept the noiseless tenor of their way, I

Yet e'en these bones, from insult to protect', |

Some frail memorial still', erected nigh', ] With uncouth rhymes, and shapeless sculpture deck'd',

Implores the passing tribute of a sigh: 1 Their names', their years', spell’d by the unletter'd muse',

The place of fame, and elegy, supply ; | And many a holy text around she strews', I

That teach the rustic moralist to die. I For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey', /

This pleasing, anxious being , e'er resign'd', Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day', 1

Nor cast one longing, ling’ring look behind, ? | On some fond breast, the parting soul relies'; }

Some pious drops, the closing eye requires ; | E'en from the tomb the voice of nature, cries', |

E'en in our ash'es live their wonted fires. 1

For thee, who, mindful of the unhonour'd dead', i

Dost in these lines their artless tale, relate', 1 If, chance, by lonely contemplation led',

Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate',

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say',

“Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn', | Brushing, with hasty step, the dews away', /

To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. I There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech', !

That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high', / His listless length at noontide would he stretch',

And pore upon the brook that bubbles by. I Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn', |

Mutt'ring his wayward fancies, he would rove'; / Now droop'ing, wo'ful, wanı, I like one forlorn', !

Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless love.

One morn I miss'd him on the accustom'd hill', |

Along the heath', and near his fav’rite tree ; i Another came ; | nor yet beside the rill', i

Nor up the lawn, I nor at the wood' was he. I

The next, with dirges due, in sad array', /
Slow through the church-yard path', we saw him

borne Approach, and read' ('for thou canst read') the lay',

Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn."

Here rests his head upon the lap of earth', ]

A youth to Fortune, and to Fame, unknown. ; Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth', |

And Melancholy mark'd him for her own!

Large was his bounty, and his soul, sincere - -l

Heaven did a recompense as largely send, 1 He gave to Mis'ry all he had', a tear; / He gain'd from Heavı'nI ('t was all he wish'd') | a

friend. I No farther seek his merits to disclose,

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, | (There they alike in trembling hope repose') 1

2 The bosom of his father, and his God. 1

DOUGLAS'S ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF.

(HOME.)
My name is Nor val; , on the Grampian hills
My father feeds his flocksı ; | a frugal swain: |
Whose constant cares were to increase his store', !
And keep his only son, myself, at home:
For I had heard of bat'tles, and I long'd
To follow to the field some warlike lord ; |
And heaven soon granted what my sire denied, ! |
This moon, which rose last night, round as my shield, I
Had not yet fill'd her horns, I when by her light, /
A band of fierce barbarians from the hills,
Rush'd like a torrent down upon the vale', /
Sweeping our flocks, and herds. | The shepherds fled
For safety, and for succour. \ I, alone', /
With bended bow, and quiver full of arrows,
Hover'd about the enemy, I and mark'd
The road he took : | then hasted to my friends |
Whom, with a troop of fifty chosen men,
I met advancing. ! The pursuit I' led,
Till we o'ertook the spoil-encumber'd foe. I
We fought, and conquer'd. | Ere a sword was drawn, /
An arrow from

my bow had pierc'd their chief
Who wore, that day, the arms which now I' wear. 1
Returning home in triumph, 1 I disdain'd
The shepherd's slothful life ; | and, having heard |

That our good king had summond his bold peers |
To lead their warriors to the Carron side, /
I left my father's house, I and took with me
A chosen servant | to conduct my steps - 1
Yon trembling coward who forsook his master. I

Journeying with this intent, I pass'd these towers,
And, heaven-directed, I came this day to do
The happy deed that gilds my humble name. /

THE GRAVE OF FRANKLIN.

(MISS C. H. WATERMAN.)
No chisellid urn is rear'd to thee ; |

No sculptur'd scroll enrolls its page |
To tell the children of the free',

Where rests the patriot, and the sage: 1
Far in the city of the dead',

A corner holds thy sacred clayı ;
And pilgrim' feet, by reverence led', |

Have worn a path that marks the way. I
There, round thy lone, and simple grave', |

Encroaching on its marble gray', ]
Wild plantain weeds, and tall grass wave',

And sunbeams pour their shadeless ray.1
Level with earth', thy letter'd stone - 1

And hidden oft by winter's snow 1
Its modest record tells alone |

Whose dust it is that sleeps below .* |
That name 's enough' - | that honour'd name' |

No aid from eulogy requires : 1
'Tis blended with thy country's fame', I

And flashes round her lightning spires. I

* The body of Franklin lies in Christ-Church burying-ground, corner of Mulberry and Fifth street, Philadelphia. The inscription upon his tomb-stone is as follows:

BENJAMIN

FRANKLIN 26 *

AND
DEBORAH

1790