ANEL EGY,

Written in a Country Church Yard.

This is a very fine poem, but overloaded with epithet. The heroic meafure with alternate rhime is very properly adapted to the folemnity of the fubject, as it is the flowest movement that our language admits of. The latter part of the poem is thetic and interesting.

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HE Curfew tolls the knell of parting day,

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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 fight, And all the air a folemn ftillness holds,

Save where the beetle wheels his drony flight,
And droufy tinklings lull the distant folds;
Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r,

The moping owl does to the Moon complain
Of fuch, as, wand'ring near her fecret bow'r,
Moleft her ancient, folitary reign.

Beneath thofe rugged elms, that yew-trees fhade, Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap,

Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy tall of incenfe-breathing morn,

The fwallow, twitt'ring from the ftraw-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 housewife ply her evening care: Nor children run to lifp their fire's return,

Or climb his knees the envied kifs to share. Oft did the harvest 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 ftroke!
Let not ambition mock their useful toil,

Their homely joys, and deftiny obfcure;
Nor grandeur heat with a difdainful smile,
The short and fimple annals of the poor.
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 raife,
Where, thro' the long-drawn ifle 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 foothe the dull cold ear of death?
Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid

Some heart once pregnant with celeftial fire:

Hands,

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 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 flow'r is born to blush unseen, And wafte 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

reft;

Some Cromwell guiltless 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 history 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 ftrife,
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 fculpture deck'd, Implores the paffing tribute of a figh.

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

And many a holy text around she ftrews,
That teach the ruftic moralift to dye.
For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,
This pleafing anxious being e'er resign'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 artlefs tale relate;
If, chance, by lonely Contemplation led,
Some kindred fpirit fhall inquire thy fate,
Haply fome hoary-headed fwain may say,
"Oft have we feen him, at the peep of dawn,
Brufhing, with hafty fteps, the dews away,
To meet the fun upon the upland lawn.
There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech,
That wriths its old fantastic roots fo high,

His liftlefs length at noon-tide would he stretch,
And pore upon the brook that babbles by.
Hard by yen wood, now fmiling, as in fcorn,
Mutt'ring his wayward fancies, he wou'd rove;

Now

Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn,
Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless love.
One morn I miss'd him on the 'cuftom'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 thro' the church-yard path we saw him borne. Approach and read (for thou can'ft read) the lay, Grav'd on the flone beneath yon aged thorn."

THE EPITAPH.

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 wish'd) a friend. No farther feek his merits to difclofe,

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, (There they alike in trembling hope repofe) The bofom of his Father and his God.