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Sure you may pity what you can't approve,
The cruel confequence of furious love.
Think the bold wretch, that could fo greatly dare,
Was tender, faithful, ardent, and fincere :
Think when I held the piftol to your breast,
Had I been of the world's large rule poffefs'd,
That world had then been yours, and I been bleft!
Think that my life was quite below my care,
Nor fear'd I any hell beyond defpair.—

If these reflections, though they feize you late, Give fome compaffion for your Arthur's fate; Enough you give, nor ought I to complain; You pay my pangs, nor have I dy'd in vain.

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ELEGY

ELEGY on a COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD.

HE curfeu tolls the knell of parting day,

THE

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

Now fades the glimm'ring landscape on the fight,
And all the air a folemn ftillness holds,

Save where the beetle wheels his drony flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the diftant folds;

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r
The mopping owl does to the moon complain
Of fuch, as wand'ring near her secret bow'r,
Moleft her ancient, folitary reign.

Beneath thofe rugged elms, that yew-trees 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 incense breathing morn,

The fwallow twitt'ring from the ftraw-built fhed,

The

The cock's fhrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
No more shall roufe them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth fhall burn,
Or bufy housewife ply her ev'ning care:

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

Oft did their harvest to their fickle yield,
Their furrow oft the ftubborn glebe has broke;
How jocund did they drive their team a-field!
How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke !

Let not ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor Grandeur hear with a difdainful fmile,
The short 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,
Await alike th' inevitable hour.

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,
If Mem❜ry o'er their tomb no trophies raise,
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

Can Honour's voice provoke the filent duft,
Or Flatt'ry footh 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 fway'd,
Or wak'd to ecstasy 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 flow'r is born to blush unseen,
And wafte its sweetness on the defart air.

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

Th' applaufe of lift'ning fenates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
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

Forbad to wade through flaughter to a throne,
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind.

The ftruggling pangs of confcious truth to hide,
To quench the blushes of ingenious shame,
Or heap the shrine 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 ftray;
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 supply :

And many a holy text around the ftrews,
That teach the ruftic moralift to die.

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 clofing eye requires:

Ev'n

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