Can ftoried urn or animated bust

Back to its manfion call the fleeting breath?

Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust,

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 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 blufh unfeen,

And wafte its sweetness on the desert air.

Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast

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 despise,

To scatter 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 conscious 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.

I z

Yet

Yet ev❜n these bones from infult to protect

Some frail memorial still 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 muse,

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

On fome fond breast the parting foul relies,
Some pious drops the clofing eye requires;

Ev'n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,

*Ev'n in our Ashes live their 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 Spirit fhall inquire thy fate,

* Ch'i veggio nel penfier, dolce mio fuoco,
Fredda una lingua, & due begli occhi chiufi

Rimaner doppo noi pien di faville.

Petrarch. Son. 169.

Haply