If falsehood's honey it disdained, And, where it could not praise, was chained If bold in virtue's cause it spoke, That tuneful tongue shall plead for thee Say, did these fingers delve the mine, Avails it whether bare or shod ANONYMOUS. HYMN OF THE CHURCH YARD. Аn me! this is a sad and silent city; Let me walk softly o'er it, and survey Its grassy streets with melancholy pity! Where are its children? where their gleesome play? Alas! their cradled rest is cold and deep,Their play things are thrown by, and they asleep. This is pale beauty's bower; but where the beautiful, This is a populous place: but where the bustling, The crowded buyers of the noisy mart,The lookers on,-the snowy garments rustling,- The money-changers, and the men of art? Business, alas! hath stopped in mid career, And none are anxious to resume it here. This is the home of grandeur: where are they, The rich, the great, the glorious, and the wise? Where are the trappings of the proud, the gay, The gaudy guise of human butterflies? Alas! all lowly lies each lofty brow, And the green sod dizens their beauty now. This is a place of refuge and repose: Where are the poor, the old, the weary wight, The scorned, the humble, and the man of woes, Who wept for morn, and sighed again for night? Their sighs at last have ceased, and here they sleep Beside their scorners, and forget to weep. This is a place of gloom: where are the gloomy? The gloomy are not citizens of deathApproach and look, where the long grass is plumy; See them above! they are not found beneath! For these low denizens, with artful wiles, Nature, in flowers, contrives her mimic smiles. Whom I have seen come forth at evening's This is a place of sorrow: friends have met And those who once were sweetest sleep be- Where there is neither love, nor tears, nor THANATOPSIS. This is a place of fear: the firmest eye And earthly cares, and nature's weariness, Have made the timid pilgrim cease to fear, And long to end his painful journey here. heart 709 Yet not to thine eternal resting-place Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down With patriarchs of the infant world-with kings, The powerful of the earth-the wise, the good Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, vales Stretching in pensive quietness between- Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste,- The globe are but a handful to the tribes Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound Save his own dashings-yet-the dead are there; Go forth, under the open sky, and list To Nature's teachings, while from all around-And millions in those solitudes, since first Earth and her waters, and the depths of air-The flight of years began, have laid them And to the sluggish clod which the rude swain And make their bed with thee. As the long Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak train Of ages glide away, the sons of men, Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy The youth in life's green spring, and he who ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD. 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. The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, 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 memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. Can storied urn, or animated bust, Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can Honor's voice provoke the silent dust, Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of death? Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire 711 Their lot forbade; nor circumscribed alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined Forbade 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, Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. Their name, their years, spelt by th' unlettered Muse, The place of fame and elegy supply; Hands, that the rod of empire might have And many a holy text around she strews, swayed, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre; But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page, Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll; Chill Penury repressed their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul. Full many a gem of purest ray serene The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear; Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air. That teach the rustic moralist to die. For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing, anxious being e'er resigned, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind? On some fond breast the parting soul relies, Some pious drops the closing eye requires; E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonored breast, The little tyrant of his fields withstoodSome mute, inglorious Milton here may rest, Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood. Th' applause of listening senates to command, And read their history in a nation's eyes, dead, Dost in these lines their artless tale relate; Haply some hoary-headed swain may say: dawn Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, |