Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, | Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, Molest her ancient solitary reign. Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turfin 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, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or busy housewife ply her evening care; No 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 jocund did they drive their team afield! How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke. Let not ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure: 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 thro' the long drawn aisle and fretted vault, The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. 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 waked to ecstacy the living lyre. But knowledge to their eyes her ample page, Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll; Chill penury repressed their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul. Full many a gem of purest ray serene The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear; Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air. The little tyrant of his fields withstood, Some mute inglorious Milton, here may rest, Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood The applause of listening senates to command, The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, And read their history in a nation's eyes, Their lot forbade; nor circumscribed alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined Forbade to wade through slaughter 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 incense kindled at the muse's flame. Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,❤ Their sober wishes never learned to stray; Along the cool sequestered vale of life They kept the noiseless tenour of their way. Yet e'en these bones, from insult to protect Some frail memorial still erected nigh With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. Their name,their years, spelt by the unlettered muse, For who to dumb forgetfulness a prey This pleasing anxious being e'er resigned, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing lingering look behind? On some fond breast the parting soul relies, Some pious drops the closing eye requires; For thee, who, mindful of the unhonoured dead Some kindred spirit shall inquire 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. This part of the elegy differs from the first copy. The following stanza was excluded with the other alterations: Hark! how the sacred calm, that breathes around, Bids every fierce tumultuous passion cease, In still small accents whispering from the grou A grateful earnest of eternal peace. ↑ Ch'i veggio nel pensier, dolce mio fuoco, Fredda una lingua, et due begli occhi chiuff Rimaner droppo noi pien difaville.-Petrarch, Son. 169. "There, at the foot of yonder nodding beach, That wreaths its old fantastic root so high, His listless length at noon-tide would he stretch, And bore upon the brook that bubbles by. "Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Muttering his wayward fancies, he would rove; Now drooping, woful wan! like one forlorn, Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love. "One morn I missed him on the accustomed 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 through the churchway-path we saw him borne: Approach, and read (for thou canst read) the lay Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." EPITAPH. HERE rests his head upon the lap of earth, A youth to fortune and to fame unknown: Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere; He gained from Heaven ('twas all he wished) 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. EPITAPH. ON MRS. MARY CLARKE§ Lo! where this silent marble weeps, A friend, a wife, a mother, sleeps; Mr. Gray forgot, when he displaced, by the preceding stanza, his beautiful description of the evening haunt, the reference to it which he had here left: Him have we seen the greenwood side along, Oft as the woodlark piped her farewell song, In the early editions the following lines were added, but the parenthesis was thought too long: There scattered oft, the earliest of the year, By hands unseen, are showers of violets found; The redbreast loves to build and warble there, And little footsteps lightly print the ground. -Paventosa speme. Petrarch, Son. This lady, the wife of Dr. Clarke, physician at Epsom, died April 27th, 1757, and is buried in the church of Becken. ham, Kent, A heart, within whose sacred celi TRANSLATION FROM STATIUS. THIRD in the labours of the disc came on, His vigorous arm he tried before he flung, The ponderous mass sinks in the cleaving ground, GRAY OF HIMSELF. Too poor for a bribe, and too proud to importune, No very great wit, he believed in a God: |