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The struggling pangs of conscious Truth to hide, To quench the blushes of ingenuous Shame, Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray; Along the cool sequester'd vale of life They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect, Some frail memorial still erected nigh, With uncouth rlıymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd Muse, The place of fame and elegy supply, And many a holy text around she strews, That teach the rustic moralist to die. 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 ling’ring look behind ? On some fond breast the parting soul relies, Some pious drops the closing eye requires ; E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires, For thee, who mindful of th' unhonor'd dead, Dost in these lines their artless tale relate, If chance, by lonely Contemplation led, Some kindred spirit shall enquire thy fate, 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, That wreaths its old fantastic root so high, His listless length at noon-tide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that bubbles by,

Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,
Mutt'ring 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 fav'rite 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 churchway-path we saw him borne:
Approach, and read (for thou canst read) the lay
Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn."

HERE rests his head upon the

lap of earth, A youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown; Fair Science frown'd uot on his humble birth, And Melancholy mark'd him for her own. Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere; Heav'n did a recompense as largely send : He gave to mis'ry all he had, a tear; He gain'd from Heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) a friend. No further 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.

A distant Prospect of Eton College.
E distant Spires! ye antique Tow'rs!

That crown the watry glade
Where grateful Science still adores

Her Henry's holy shade;
And ye that from the stately brow
Of Windsor's heights th' expanse below

Of grove, of lawn, of mead, survey ;
Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers, among
Wanders the hoary Thames along
His silver winding way.


Ah happy hills! ah pleasing shade!

Ah fields belov'd in vain !
Where once my careless childhood stray'd,

A stranger yet to pain!
I feel the gales that from ye blow
A momentary bliss bestow,

As waving fresh their gladsome wing
My weary soul they seem to soothe,
And, redolent of joy and youth,

To breathe a second spring.
Say, father Thames ! for thou hast seen.

Full many a sprightly race,
Disporting on thy margent green,

The paths of pleasure trace,
Who foremost now delight to cleave
With pliant arm thy glassy wave?

The captive linnet which enthral?
What idle progeny succeed
To chase the rolling circle's speed,

Or urge the flying ball ?
While some, on earnest bus'ness bent,

Their murm'ring labors ply 'Gainst graver hours, that bring constraint,

To sweeten liberty ;
Some bold adventurers disdain
The limits of their little reign,

And unknown regions dare descry:
Still as they run they look behind,
They hear a voice in ev'ry wind,

And snatch a fearful joy.
Gay hope is theirs, by fancy fed,

Less pleasing when possest!
The tear forgot as soon as shed,

The sunshine of the breast; Theirs buxom health of rosy hue, Wild wit, invention ever new,

And lively cheer of vigor born; The thoughtless day, the easy night, The spirits pure, the slumbers light,

That fly th' approach of morn.

Alas! regardless of their doom,

The litlle victims play!
No sense have they of ills to come,

Nor care beyond to-day;
Yet see how all around 'em wait
The ministers of human fate,

And black Misfortune's baleful train! Ah ! shew them where in ambush stand, To seize their prey, the murd'rous band !

Ah! tell them they are men. These shall the fury passions tear,

The vulturs of the mind, Disdainful Anger, pallid Fear,

And Shame, that skulks behind ; Or pining Love shall waste their youth, Or Jealousy, with rankling tooth,

That inly gnaws the secret heart! And Envy wan, and faded Care, Grim-visag'd, comfortless Despair,

And Sorrow's piercing dart. Ambition this shall tempt to rise,

Then whirl the wretch from high, To bitter Scorn a sacrifice,

And grinning Infamy: The stings of Falsehood those shall try, And hard Unkindness' alter'd eye,

That mocks the tear it forc'd to flow; And keen Remorse, with blood defild, And moody Madness laughing wild

Amid severest woe.
Lo! in the vale of years beneath,

A grisly troop are seen,
The painful family of Death,

More hideous than their queen:
This racks the joints, this fires the veins,
That ev'ry lab'ring sinew strains,

Those in the deeper vitals rage;
Lo! Poverty, to fill the band,
That numbs the soul with icy hand,

And slow-consuming Age.

To each his suff'rings; all are men

Condemn'd alike to groan,
The tender for another's pain,

Th' unfeeling for his own.
Yet ah! why should they know their fate,
Since Sorrow never comes too late,

And Happiness too swiftly flies!
Thought would destroy their paradise.
No more; where ignorance is bliss

'Tis folly to be wise.


To Adversity.
AUGHTER of Jove, relentless pow'r,

Thou tamer of the human breast,
Whose iron scourge and tort'ring hour

The bad affright, afflict the best!
Bound in thy adamantine chain,
The proud are taught to taste of pain !
And purple tyrants vainly groan
With pangs unfelt before, unpity'd and alone.
When first thy sire to send on earth

Virtue, his darling child, design'd,
To thee he gave the heav'nly birth,

And bade to form her infant mind :
Stern rugged nurse ! thy rigid lore
With patience many a year she bore;
What sorrow was thou bad'st her know,
And, from her own, she learnt to melt at others' woe,
Scar'd at thy frown terrific, fly

Self-pleasing Folly's idle brood,
With Laughter, Noise, and thoughtless Joy,

And leave us leisure to be good.
Light they disperse ; and with them go
The summer friend, the flattring foe;
By vain Prosperity receiv'd,
To her they vow their truth, and are again believ'd.

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