Or Winter rises in the blackening east ; Be my tongue mute, may fancy paint no more, Should fate command me to the farthest verge In the void waste as in the city full; And where He vital breathes there must be joy. Myself in Him, in Light ineffable! Come then, expressive silence, muse His praise. THE SHEPHERD'S HOME. SHENSTONE, 1714—1763. My banks they are furnished with bees, Whose murmur invites one to sleep ; And my hills are white over with sheep. I seldom have met with a loss, Such health do my fountains bestow; Not a pine in my grove is there seen, But with tendrils of woodbine is bound; Not a beech's more beautiful green, But a sweet-brier entwines it around: Not my fields in the prime of the year, But it glitters with fishes of gold. One would think she might like to retire But I hasten'd and planted it there. To prune the wild branches away. From the plains, from the woodlands, and groves, What strains of wild melody flow! How the nightingales warble their loves From the thickets of roses that blow : And when her bright form shall appear, Each bird shall harmoniously join In a concert so soft and so clear, As she may not be fond to resign. I have found out a gift for my fair I have found where the wood-pigeons breed ;But let me such plunder forbear, She would say 'twas a barbarous deed; For he ne'er could be true, she averred, I have heard her with sweetness unfold And she called it the sister of Love. Let her speak, and whatever she say, AN ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. GRAY, 1716-1771. THE curfew tolls the knell of parting day, Now fades the glimm'ring landscape on the sight, Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r, Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed, For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Her children run to lisp their sire's return, 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 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 disdainful smile, The short and simple annals of the poor. The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r, 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 ? Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire ; Hands, that the rod of empire might have swayed, Or wak'd to ecstasy the living lyre. But knowledge to their eyes her ample page, Chill penury repress'd their noble rage, Full many a gem, of purest ray serene, The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear: Full many a flow'r is born to blush unseen, And waste 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 list'ning senates to command, Their lot forbade : nor circumscrib'd alone The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, With incense kindled at the muse's flame. Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, They kept the noiseless tenour of their way. Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd, Their name, their years, spelt by the unletter'd muse, The place of fame and elegy supply; . And many a holy text around she strews, For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, On some fond breast the parting soul relies, |