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So perish all, whose breast ne'er learnt to glow
For others good, or melt at others woe.

What can atone (oh ever-injur'd shade !)
Thy fate unpity'd, and thy rites unpaid?
No friends complaint, no kind domestic tear
Pleas'd thy pale ghost, or grac'd thy mournsul bier;
By foreign hands thy dying eyes were clos'd,
By foreign hands thy decent limbs compos'd.
By foreign hands thy humble grave adorn'd,
By strangers honour'd, and by strangers mourn'd .'
What tho' no friends in fable weeds appear,
Grieve for an hour, perhaps, then mourn a year,
And bear about the mockery of woe
To midnight dances, and the public show;
What tho' no sacred earth allow thee room,
Nor hallow'd dirge be mutter'd o'er thy tomb;
Yet shall thy grave with rising flow'rs be drest,
And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast:
There shall the morn her earliest tears bestow,
There the sirst roses of the year shall blow;
While Angels with their silver wings o'ershade
The ground, now facred by thy reliques made.

So peacesul rests, without a stone, a name,
What once had beauty, tides, wealth, and fame:
How lov'd, how honcur'd once, avails thee not,
To whom related, or by whom begot;
A heap of dust alone remains of thee,
'Tis all thou art, and all the proud shall be!

Poets themselves must fall, like those they sung,
Deas the prais'd ear, and mute the tunesul tongue.
Ev'n he, whose foul now melts in mournsul lays,
Shall shortly want the generous tear he pays:
Then from his closing eyes thy form shall part,
And the last pang shall tear thee from his heart:
Lise's idle business at one gasp be o'er,
The muse forgot, and thou belov'd no more!

But of Elegies on the subject of death, this by Mr. Gray is one of the best that has appeared in our language, and may be justly esteem'd a masterpiece.

Elegy. Written in a country cliunh-yari.

Tha-curseu tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd winds flowly o'er the lea.

The plowman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness, and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape On the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds;

Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
Or drowsy tincklings lull the distant folds.

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r
The moping owl does to the moon complain

Of such as, wand'ring near her secret bow'r,
Molest her ancient solitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,
Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap,

Each in his narrcw cell for ever laid,

The rude fore fathers of the hamlet fleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,

The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed,

The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or bosy housewife ply her evening care:

-No children run to lisp their sire's return,
Or climb his knees the envy'd kiss to share.

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,
Their surrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke;

How jocund did they drive their team a sield!

How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

Let not ambition mock their usesul toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;

Nor grandeur hear with a disdainsul smile,
The short and simple annals of the poor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,

Awaits alike th' inevitable hour,

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Forgive, ye proud, th' involuntary fault,

If memory to these no trophies raise, Where through the long-drawn ifle and fretted vault

The pealing anthem swells the notes 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 flatt'ry sooth the dull cold ear of death?

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid

Some heart once pregnant with celestial sire,

Hands that the reins of empire might have sway'd,
Or wak'd to extasy the living lyre.

But knowledge to their eyes her ample page,
Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unro

Chill penury repress'd their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the soul.

Full many a gem of purest ray serene,

The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean, bear:

Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

Some vilhge-Hamjidca, that with dauntless breast
The little tyrant of his sields withstood;

Some mute inglorious Mi/ton here may rest,
Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood.

Th' applause os list'ning senates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to despise,

To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,
And read their history in a nation's eyes

Their lot forbad; nor circumferib'd alone

Their growing virtues, but their crimes consin'd;

Forbad to wade through flaughter to a throne,
And shut the gates of mercy on. mankind,

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,

Or heap the lhrine of luxury and pride
With incense, kindled at the muse's flame.

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strise,
Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray;

Along the cool sequester'd vale of life
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

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 pasting tribute of a sigh.

Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd muse,

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

That teach the rustic moralist to die.

For who to dumb forgetsulness a prey,
This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd,-

Left the warm precincts of the chearsul day,
Nor cast one longing, ling'ring look behind?

On some fond breast the parting foul relies,
Some pious drops the closing eye requires;

Ev'n from the tomb the voice of nature cries,
Awake and faithsul to her wonted sires.

For thee, who mindsul of th' unhonour'd dead
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;

If chance, by lonely contemplation led,
Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fater

Haply, some hbary-headed swain may fay,
« Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn

* Brushing with hasty steps the dews away,
« To meet the fun upon the upland lawn.

« There at the soot of yonder nodding beech

< That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,

« His listless length at noon-tide would he stretch,

< And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

« Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, * Mutt'ring his wayward fancies he would love,

« Now drooping, woesul wan, like one forlorn, « Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless love,

One morn I miss'd him on th' accustom'd hill, « Alor^ the heath, and near his fav'rite tree; « Another came; nor yet beside 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 can'st read) the lay,

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

« There scatter'd oft, the earliest of the year,

'By hands unseen, are show'rs of violets found; « The red-breast loves to build and warble there,

< And little foosteps lightly print the ground.

The Epitaph.

* Here rests his head upon the lap of earth

'A youth to sortune 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 sincere, 1 Heav'n did a recompence as largely send:

* He gave to mis'ry (all he had) a tear:

« He gain'd from heav'n ftwas all he wish'd) a friend.

'No farther seek his merits to disclose,

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

* The bosom of his father and his God.'

We have already observed that any dreadsul catastrophe is a proper subject for Elegy; and what can be more so than a civil war, where the fathers and children, the dearest relations and friends, meet each other in arms? We have on this subject a most a!fecting Elegy, intituled the Tears of Scotland, ascribed to Dr. Strullet, and set to music by Mr. Oswald, just after the late rebellion.

The Tears of Scotland. Written in th Tear 1746.
I.

Mourn, hapless Caledonia, mourn
Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn

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