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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

a Desert air; not dez-zer-tair.

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."

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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

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