Perhaps in this neglected fpot is laid
Some heart once pregnant with celeftial fire;
Hands, that the rod of empire might have fway'd,
Or wak'd to extafy the living lyre.
But Knowledge to their eyes her ample pare
Rich with the fpoils 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.
Some village-Hampden, that with dauntlefs breaft
The little Tyrant of his fields withstood;
Some mute inglorious Milton here may reft,
Some Cromwell guiltlefs of his country's blood.
Th' applaufe of lift'ning fenates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to defpife.
To fcatter plenty o'er a fmiling land,
And read their lift'ry in a nation's eyes,
Their lot forbad: nor circumferib'd alone
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd ;
Forbad to wade through flaughter to a throne,
And fhut the gates of mercy on mankind.
The fruggling pangs of confcious truth to hide,
To quench the blushes of ingenuous fhame,
Or heap the fhrine of Luxury and Pride
With incenfe kindled at the Mufe's fame.
Far from the madding crowd's ignoble frife
Their fober wishes never learn'd to fray;
Along the cool fequefter'd vale of life
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.
Yet ev'n those bones from infult to protect
Some frail memorial still erected nigh,
With uncouth rhymes and fhapelefs fculpture deck'd
Implores the paffing tribute of a figh.
Their name, their years, fpelt by the unletter'd Mufe,
The place of fame and elegy fupply:
And many a holy text around the ftrews,
That teach the ruftic moralift to die.
For who to dumb Forgetfulness a prey,
This pleafing 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 Afhes live their wonted Fires.
For thee, who mindful of th' unhonour'd Dead
Doft in thefe lines their artless tale relate;
If chance, by lonely Contemplation led,
Some kindred spirit fhall enquire thy fate.
Haply fome hoary-headed fwain may say,
• Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn
Brushing with hafty steps the dews away
To meet the fun upon the upland lawn.
There at the foot of yonder nodding beach That wreathes its old fantastic roots fo high, His liftless length at noon-tide would he stretch, • And pore upon the brook that babbles 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 mifs'd him on the custom'd hill,
Along the heath and near his fav rite 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 born, Approach and read (for thou canft read) the lay, Grav'd on the ftone beneath yon aged thorn.'
HERE refts 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 foul fincere,
Heav'n did a recompence as largely fend:
He gave to Mis'ry all he had, a tear,
He gain'd from Heav'n ('twas all he wifh'd) a friend.
No farther feek his merits to difclofe,
Or draw his frailties from their dread abode (There they alike in trembling hope repose) The bofom of his Father, and his God.
ORROWING, the Nine beneath yon blafted
Shed the bright drops of Pity's holy dew!
Mute are their tuneful tongues, extin&t their fires;
Yet not in filence fleep their filver lyres;
-. To the bleak gale they vibrate fad and flow,
In deep accordance to a Nation's woe.
Ye, who ere while for Cook's illuftrious brow
Pluck'd the green laurel, and the oaken bough,
Hung the
gay garlands on the trophied oars,
And pour'd his fame along a thousand fhores,
Strike the flow death-bell! weave the facred verse,
And ftrew the cypress o'er his honor'd hearse ;
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