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Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower
The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of fuch as, wand'ring near her fecret bower,
Moleft her ancient, folitary reign.

Beneath thofe rugged elms, that yew-tree's 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 fleep.

The breezy call of incenfe-breathing morn,
The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built fhed,
The cock's fhrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth fhall burn,
Or bufy housewife ply her ev'ning care;
No children run to lifp their fire's return,

Or climb his knees, the envied kifs to share,

Oft did the harveft to their fickle yield;

Their furrow oft the ftubborn glebe has broke; How jocund did they drive the teams a-field! How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!;

Let not ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obfcure;
Nor grandeur hear, with a difdainful fmile,
The short and fimple annals of the poor.

The boaft 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 mem'ry o'er their tomb no trophies raise,
Where, thro' the long-drawn aifle 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 footh the dull, cold ear of death?

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid

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

But knowledge to their eyes her ample page,
Rich with the fpoils of time, did ne'er unrol;
Chill penury repress'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 flower is born to blush unfeen,
And wafte its sweetness on the desert air.

Somevillage Hampden, that with dauntless breaft
The little tyrant of his fields withstood;
Some mute inglorious Milton here may reft,
Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood.

Th' applaufe of lift'ning fenates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
To fcatter plenty o'er a smiling land,
And read their hift'ry in a nation's eyes,

Their lot forbade nor circumfcrib'd alone

Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd; Forbad to wade through flaughter to a throne, And fhut the gates of mercy on mankind;

The ftruggling pangs of confcious truth to hide,
To quench the blushes of ingenuous fhame,
Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride,

With incenfe kindled at the mufes' flame.

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,
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 e'en these bones, from insult to protect,
Some frail memorial ftill erected nigh,

With uncouth rhimes and fhapelefs fculpture deck'd,
Implores the paffing tribute of a figh.

Their name, their years, fpelt by th' unletter'd mufe,
Their place of fame and elegy supply;

And many a holy text around fhe strews,
That teach the ruftic moralift to die.

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,
This pleafing anxious being e'er refign'd;
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
Nor caft one longing ling'ring look behind?

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