Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower, Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 134 ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow, twittering from the straw-built shed, For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield; 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; The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, Can storied urn or animated bust, Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? FLEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. 135 Can Honour'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; But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page, Full many a gem of purest ray serene The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear; Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast Th' applause of listening senates to command, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, And read their history in a nation's eyes, Their lot forbad; nor circumscribed alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined ; Forbad to wade through slaughter to a throne, And shut the gates of mercy on mankind. 136 ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. 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, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked, Their name, their years, spelt by th' unlettered Muse, And many a holy text around she strews, 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. For thee, who, mindful of the unhonoured dead, If, chance, by lonely Contemplation led, 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. "Hard by yon wood, now smiling, as in scorn, Muttering his wayward fancies, he would rove : S |