158 Sir John Franklin's Expedition. II. In mine ear the terrible rush, The thundering rush of the floe; In mine heart, their mute despair, And the groans of our wailing knell, Not a knee rose more to the light; The reeling and shrunken clay And mine hour is yet untold! III. Mine eyelids burn; congeals For I dream of fond hearts at home, Cold, Cold, Cold, And mine hour is nearly told! IV. When they come, for come they will, Nor fearch this coaft in vain, Till the Great Day comes at laft; For I fink on this fatal beach; I have prayed with my latest breath; And mine own laft hour is told! B. P. XXXII. THE CHURCH-YARD. HE Curfew tolls the knell of parting day; The lowing herd winds flowly o'er the lea; The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me. Now fades the glimmering landscape on the fight, And drowsy tinklings lull the diftant folds. Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's fhade, Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely ways and destiny obscure- The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Can ftoried urn, or animated bust, Back to its manfion 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 swayed, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre. But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page, Full many a gem of pureft ray serene, The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear; Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the defert air. Some village Hampden that with dauntless breast, The applaufe of liftening fenates to command, And read their history in a nation's eyes, Their lot forbade; nor circumfcribed alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined; Forbad to wade through flaughter to a throne, And fhut the gates of mercy on mankind. XXXIII. GRAY. THE CHURCH. HOUGH private prayer be a brave defign, Yet public hath more promises, more love; And love's a weight to hearts, to eyes a fign, We are all but cold fuitors; let us move Where it is warmeft. Heaven. Leave thy fix and feven; for where most pray, is M When once thy foot enters the Church, be bare; God is more there than thou; for thou art there Only by His permiffion. Then beware, And make thyfelf all reverence and fear. Kneeling ne'er spoiled filk ftocking; quit thy ftate: All equal are within the Church's gate. Refort to fermons, but to prayers most ; Praying's the end of preaching. Oh, be drest; Stay not for the other pin. Why, thou haft loft A joy for it worth worlds. Thus hell doth jest Away thy bleffings, and extremely flout thee, Thy clothes being faft, but thy foul loofe about thee. In time of fervice feal up both thine eyes, And fend them to thine heart, that spying fin, They may weep out the stains by them that rife, Those doors being fhut, all by the ears comes in. Who marks in Church-time others' fymmetry, Marks all their beauty his deformity. Let vain or bufy thoughts have there no part; Chrift purged His Temple, so must thou thy heart; To cozen thee. Judge not the preacher, for he is thy judge; |