VI.

The pious mother, doom'd to death,
Forfaken, wanders o'er the heath.
The bleak wind whiftles round her head
Her helpless orphans cry for bread,
Bereft of shelter, food, and friend,
She views the fhades of night defcend,
And ftretch'd beneath th' inclement fkies,
Weeps o'er her tender babes, and dies.

VII.

Whilft the warm blood bedews my veins,
And unimpair'd remembrance reigns;
Refentment of my country's fate,
Within my filial breast shall beat;
And, fpite of her infulting foe,
My fympathizing verfe fhall flow,
"Mourn, hapless Caledonia, mourn
"Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn.

ΑΝ

ELEGY.

WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH YARD.

HE Curfeu tolls the knell of parting day,

TH

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

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the fight, And all the air a folemn ftillness holds; Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, Or drowsy tinklings lull the diftant folds.

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r The mopeing owl does to the moon complain Of fuch as, wand'ring near her fecret bow'r, 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 fwallow twitt'ring from the straw-built fhed, The cock's fhrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more fhall roufe them from their lowly bed. For them no more the blazing hearth fhall burn, Or bufy houfwife ply her evening care: No children run to lifp their fire's return, Or climb his knees the envied kifs to fhare.

K

Oft did the harveft to their fickle yield, Their furrow oft the ftubborn 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 obfcure; Nor grandeur hear with a difdainful smile, The fhort and fimple annals of the poor.

The boaft of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Awaits alike th' inevitable hour,

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
Forgive, ye proud, th' involuntary fault,
If memory to these no trophies raife,
Where thro' the long-drawn ifle and fretted vault
The pealing anthem fwells the note of praise.
Can ftoried urn or animated bust

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 fpot is laid
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire,
Hands that the reins of empire might have sway'd,
Or wak'd to extafy the living lyre.

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 waste its fweetness on the defart air.

Some village-HAMPDEN that with dauntless breaft The little tyrant of his fields withstood; Some mute inglorious MILTON here may rest, Some CROMWELL guiltless of his country's blood. Th' applause of lift'ning fenates to command, The threats of pain and ruin to defpife, To fcatter plenty o'er a fmiling land, And read their hift'ry 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 confcious truth to hide, To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride With incenfe, kindled at the muse'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 ev'n these bones from infult to protect

Some frail memorial ftill erected nigh,

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

Their name, their years, fpelt by th' unletter'd

mufe,

The place of fame and elegy fupply:

And many a holy text around she strews,
That teach the rustic moralist to dye.

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

On fome fond breast the parting foul relies, Some pious drops the closing eye requires; Ev'n from the tomb the voice of nature cries, Awake and faithful to her wonted fires.

For thee, who mindful of th' unhonour'd dead Doft in these lines their artless tale relate; If chance, by lonely contemplation led, Some kindred fpirit fhall inquire thy fate,

Haply fome hoary-headed fwain may fay, • Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn Brufhing with hafty fteps the dews away, To meet the fun upon the upland lawn.

6

There at the foot of yonder nodding beech < That wreathes its old fantastic roots fo high, • His liftlefs length at noontide wou'd he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

Hard by yon wood, now fmiling as in fcorn, Mutt'ring his wayward fancies he wou'd rove, Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn, • Or craz'd with care, or crofs'd in hopelets love.