Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower, The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, Molest her ancient solitary reign. Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, Each in his narrow cell forever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. 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 bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! 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, 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? 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; Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre. But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page, 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. Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood. The 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 forbade; nor circumscribed alone The struggling pangs of conscious Truth to hide, Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, Along the cool sequestered vale of life 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, On some fond breast the parting soul relies, For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonored dead, Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, "There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech, "Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love. "One morn I missed him on the accustomed hill, Along the heath, and near his favorite 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 through the churchway-path we saw him borne. Approach, and read (for thou canst read) the lay Graved 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: Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere; He gained from Heaven - 'twas all he wished -- a friend. No further seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailties from their dread abode (There they alike in trembling hope repose), The bosom of his Father and his God. 234. ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON College. Ye distant spires! ye antique towers! And ye that from the stately brow Of Windsor's heights th' expanse below Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey, Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers, among His silver-winding way: Ah, happy hills! ah, pleasing shade! Where once my careless childhood strayed, A stranger yet to pain! I feel the gales that from ye blow A momentary bliss bestow, As, waving fresh their gladsome wing, My weary soul they seem to soothe, And, redolent of joy and youth, To breathe a second spring. Say, father Thames! for thou hast seen The captive linnet which inthrall? What idle progeny succeed To chase the rolling circle's speed, While some, on earnest business bent, Their murmuring labors ply, 'Gainst graver hours, that bring constraint, Some bold adventurers disdain The limits of their little reign, And unknown regions dare descry, Still as they run they look behind, Gay Hope is theirs, by Fancy fed, The tear forgot as soon as shed, And lively cheer, of vigor born; Alas! regardless of their doom, No sense have they of ills to come, Yet see how all around them wait, And black Misfortune's baleful train! To each his sufferings; all are men The tender for another's pain, Th' unfeeling for his own. Yet ah! why should they know their fate, And happiness too swiftly flies? Thought would destroy their paradise — 235. THE PROGRESS OF POESY. I. Awake, Eolian lyre! awake, And give to rapture all thy trembling strings! A thousand rills their mazy progress take; Now the rich stream of music winds along, Deep, majestic, smooth, and strong, Through verdant vales and Ceres' golden reign; The rocks and nodding groves rebellow to the roar. |