Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower, Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed, For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; Let not ambition mock their useful toil, The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r, The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye proud, to these impute the fault, Can story'd urn, or animated bust, Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; Hands that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or wak'd to ectasy the living lyre. But knowledge to their eyes her ample page, Full many a gem of purest ray serene, The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear; Full many a flow'r is born to blush unseen, And waste the sweetness on the desert air. Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast Th' applause of list'ning senates to command, Their lot forbad: nor circumscrib'd alone The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect, H Their names, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd Muse, For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, On some fond breast the parting soul relies, For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead, Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, "There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech, "Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, "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 miss'd him on th' accustom'd hill, "Along 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 sad array, "Slow thro' the church-yard path we saw him "borne. Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay, "Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." THE EPITAPH. "HERE rests 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. 66 Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, "Heav'n did a recompence as largely send: "He gave to mis'ry all he had, a tear, "He gain'd from heav'n ('twas all he wish'd), ❝ a friend. |