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But, O, how alter'd was its sprightlier tone,

When Chearfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue,
Her bow a-cross her shoulder flung,
Her buskins gem'd with morning dew,

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Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung,
The hunter's call to Faun and Dryad known!

The oak-crowned sisters and their chast-eyed queen,`
Satyrs and sylvan boys, were seen,

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Peeping from forth their alleys green;

Brown Exercise rejoic'd to hear,

And Sport leapt up and seiz'd his beechen spear. Last came Joy's ecstatic trial:

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He, with viny crown advancing,

First to the lively pipe his hand addrest,

But soon he saw the brisk-awak’ning viol,

Whose sweet entrancing voice he lov'd the best;
They would have thought, who heard the strain,
They saw in Tempe's vale her native maids,
Amidst the festal sounding shades,

To some unwearied minstrel dancing,

While, as his flying fingers kiss'd the strings,

Love fram'd with Mirth a gay fantastic round;
Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound;
And he, amidst his frolic play,

As if he would the charming air repay,
Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings.
O Music, sphere-descended maid,
Friend of Pleasure, Wisdom's aid,
Why, Goddess, why to us deny'd
Lay'st thou thy antient lyre aside ?
As in that lov'd Athenian bow'r,
You learn'd an all-commanding pow'r,
Thy mimic soul, O Nymph endear'd,
Can well recall what then it heard.
Where is thy native simple heart,
Devote to Virtue, Fancy, Art?
Arise, as in that elder time,
Warm, energic, chaste, sublime!
Thy wonders, in that godlike age,
Fill thy recording Sister's page :
'Tis said, and I believe the tale,

Thy humblest reed could more prevail,
Had more of strength, diviner rage,

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Than all which charms this laggard age,
Ev'n all at once together found
Cecilia's mingled world of sound.
O bid our vain endeavors cease,
Revive the just designs of Greece !
Return in all thy simple state!
Confirm the tales her sons relate!

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GRAY.

ELEGY

WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD.

THE curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd winds slowly 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,
And drowsy tinklings 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 narrow cell for ever laid,

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

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 busy housewife ply her evening care;

No children run to lisp their sire's return,

Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

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Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,

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Their furrow oft the stubborn 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 destiny obscure; Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor.

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The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r,

And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Await alike th' inevitable hour.

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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 swells the note of praise.

Can storied urn, or animated bust,

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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

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Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or wak'd to extasy the living lyre.

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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.

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Th' 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 hist'ry in a nation's eyes,

Their lot forbad: nor circumscrib'd alone
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd;
Forbad to wade through slaughter 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 shrine of Luxury and Pride
With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,
Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray;
Along the cool sequester'd vale of life

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They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect
Some frail memorial still erected nigh,

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

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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 Forgetfulness a prey,
This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd,
Left the warm precincts of the chearful day,
Nor cast one longing ling'ring look behind?
On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
Some pious drops the closing 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
Dost in these lines their artless tales relate;

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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 steps the dews away,
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.

"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 babbles by.

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