Wrapt in thy cloudy veil, th' incestuous queen And he the wretch of Thebes no more appear'd. O Fear, I know thee by my throbbing heart: Yet all the thunders of the scene are thine! ANTISTROPHE. Thou who such weary lengths hast past, 'Gainst which the big waves beat, Hear drowning seamen's cries, in tempests brought Dark power, with shudd'ring meek submitted thought. Be mine to read the visions old Which thy awakening bards have told : O thou whose spirit most possest Teach me but once like him to feel: GRAY. ELEGY. Written in a Country Church-yard. The Curfew tolls the knell of parting day, Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower, Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, Their harrow oft the stubborn 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 obscure; Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor. The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye Proud, impute to these the fault, If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault The pealing anthem swells the notes of praise. Can storied urn, or animated bust, Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust, Or Flattery soothe 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 waked to ecstasy the living lyre: But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul. Full many a gem of purest ray serene The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear: Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air. Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless breast, Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood. The' applause of list'ning senates to command, And read their history in a nation's eyes. 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, Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect, Their name, their years, spelt by the' unletter'd Muse And many a holy text around she strews, For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing lingering look behind? On some fond breast the parting soul relies, For thee, who, mindful of the' unhonour'd dead, Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. 'There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech, 'Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Muttering his wayward fancies, he would rove; Now drooping, woeful-wan, like one forlorn, Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless love. 'One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill, Along the heath, and near his favourite tree; Another came; nor yet beside the rill, Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he; The next with dirges due in sad array Slow thro' the church-way path we saw him borneApproach and read (for thou canst read) the lay, Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.' THE EPITAPH. Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere ; He gave to Misery (all he had) a tear, He gain'd from Heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) a friend. No farther seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, (There they alike in trembling hope repose), The bosom of his Father and his God. |