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An ELE GY

WRITTEN IN A

COUNTRY CHURCH YARD.

By Mr. GRAY.

HE curfew tolls the knell of parting day,

TH

The lowing herd wind flowly o'er the lea,
The plowman homewards plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the fight,
And all the air a folemn ftillnefs holds,

Save where the beetle wheels his drony flight,

And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;

VOL. IV.

Α

Save

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r
The mopeing owl does to the moon complain
Of fuch, as wand'ring near her secret bow'r,
Moleft her ancient, folitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,
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 straw-built fhed,
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 shall burn,
Or bufy houfwife ply her evening care:
No children run to lifp their fire's return,
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

Oft did the harveft to their fickle yield,
Their furrow oft the ftubborn 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 deftiny obfcure;
Nor Grandeur hear with a difdainful smile,
The fhort and fimple annals of the poor.

The

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

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Nor you, ye Proud, impute to These the fault,
If Mem❜ry o'er their Tomb no Trophies raise,
Where thro' the long-drawn isle and fretted vault
The pealing anthem fwells the note of praise.

Can ftoried urn or animated buft

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 sway'd,
Or wak'd to extafy the living lyre.

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

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 defart air.

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

Th' applause of lift'ning fenates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
To scatter plenty o'er a fmiling land,
And read their hift'ry in a nation's eyes

Their lot forbad: nor circumfcrib'd alone
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd;
Forbad to wade through flaughter to a throne,
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind,

The ftruggling pangs of conscious 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;
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 ftill erected nigh,

With uncouth rhimes and shapeless sculpture deck'd,
Implores the paffing tribute of a figh.

Their name, their years, fpelt by th' unletter'd Muse,
The place of fame and elegy fupply:

And many a holy text around fhe ftrews,
That teach the ruftic moralift to dye.

For who to dumb Forgetfulness a prey,
This pleasing anxious being e'er refign'd,
Left the warm precincts of the chearful day,
Nor caft one longing ling'ring look behind ?

On fome fond breaft 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 Ashes live their wonted Fires.

For thee, who mindful of th' unhonour'd Dead
Doft in thefe lines their artlefs tale relate;
If chance, by lonely Contemplation led,
Some kindred Spirit shall inquire thy fate,
Haply fome hoary-headed Swain may fay,
'Oft have we feen him at the peep of dawn
Brushing with hafty steps the dews away
To meet the fun upon the upland land.

There at the foot of yonder nodding beech
That wreathes its old fantastick roots fo high,
'His listless length at noon-tide wou'd he stretch,
• And
pore upon the brook that babbles by.
A 3

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