D

Τὸν φρονεῖν βρολὰς ὁδ

σαλα, τῷ στάθει μαθών

Θένα κυρίως ἔχειν.

ÆSCHYLUS, in Agamemnone.

AUGHTER of Jove, relentless Power,
Thou tamer of the human breast,

Whofe iron fcourge, and torturing hour,
The bad affright, afflict the best!

Bound in thy adamantine chain

The proud are taught to tafte of pain,

And purple tyrants vainly groan

With pangs unfelt before, unpitied, and alone.

When first thy fire to send on earth
Virtue, his darling child, defign'd,
To thee he gave the heavenly birth,
And bade to form her infant mind.
Stern rugged nurse; thy rigid lore
With patience many a year the bore:

What forrow was, thou bad'ft her know,

And from her own the learn'd to melt at others woe.

Scar'd at thy frown terrific, fly

Self-pleafing Folly's idle brood,

Wild Laughter, Noife, and thoughtless Joy,

And leave us leisure to be good.

Light

1

Light they difperfe, and with them go.

The fummer friend, the flattering foe;

By vain profperity receiv'd,

To her they vow their truth, and are again believ'd.

Wisdom, in fable garb array'd,

Immers'd in rapturous thought profound,

And Melancholy, filent maid,

With leaden eye, that loves the ground,

Still on thy folemn fteps attend :

Warm Charity, the general Friend,

With Justice, to herself severe,

And Pity, dropping foft the fadly-pleafing tear.

Oh, gently on thy fuppliant's head,

Dread goddess, lay thy chaftening hand!

Not in thy gorgon terrors clad,

Nor circled with the vengeful band

(As by the impious thou art feen)

With thundering voice, and threatening mien,
With fcreaming Horror's funeral cry,
Despair, and fell Disease, and ghaftly Poverty.

Thy form benign, oh goddess wear,
Thy milder influence impart,

Thy philofophic train be there

To foften, not to wound my

heart.

The generous spark extinct revive.

Teach me to love and to forgive,

Exact my own defects to scan,

What others are, to feel, and know myself a man.

ELEGY

E LE G Y

WRITTEN IN A

COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD.,

T

HE Curfew tolls the knell of parting day,

The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea,
The plowman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landfcape on the fight,
And all the air a folemn ftillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;
Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower,
The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of fuch as, wandering near her fecret bower,
Moleft her ancient folitary reign.

Beneath thofe rugged elins, that yew-tree's hade,
Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering 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 twittering from the straw-built shed,
The cock's fhrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
No more fhall rouze them from their lowly bed.

"fquilla di lontano

"Che paia 'l giorno pianger, che fi muore." DANTE. PURGAT: 1. 8.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or bufy housewife ply her evening care:

No children run to lifp their fire's return,
Or climb his knees the envied kifs to fhare.

Oft did the harveft to their fickle yield,

Their furrow oft the stubborn, glebe has brokę ;
How jocund did they drive their team afield!
How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy ftroke!

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and deftiny obfcure;
Nor Grandeur hear with a difdainful smile,
The fhort and fimple, annals of the poor.

The boast 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.

R

Nor you, ye Proud, impute to thefe the fault,
If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise,
Where through the long-drawn aifle and fretted vault,
The peeling 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 Flattery foothe 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 sway'd,
Or wak'd to extafy the living lyre.

But

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page,
Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll;
Chill Penury reprefs'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 unseen,
And wafte its fweetnefs on the defert air.

Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast
The little tyrant of his fields withftood;
Some mute inglorious Milton here may reft,
Some Cromwell guiltlefs of his country's blood.

Th' applaufe of liftening fenates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
To fcatter plenty o'er a fmiling land,
And read their history in a nation's eyes,

Their lot forbad: nor circumfcrib'd alone
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd;
Forbad to wade through flaughter to a throne,
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind,

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,
Or heap the fhrine of Luxury and Pride
With incenfe kindled at the Mufe's flame.

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble ftrife,
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