An Elegy Wrote in a Country Church Yard and The Eton College Manuscript | Page 5

the Sight,
And all the Air a solemn
Stillness holds;
Save where the Beetle wheels his droning Flight,

And drowsy Tinklings lull the distant Folds.
Save that from yonder
Ivy-mantled Tow'r
The mopeing Owl does to the Moon complain

Of such, as wand'ring near her sacred Bow'r,
Molest her ancient
solitary Reign.
Beneath those rugged Elms, that Yew-Tree's Shade,

Where heaves the Turf in many a mould'ring 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 twitt'ring
from the Straw-built Shed,
The Cock's shrill Clarion, or the ecchoing
Horn,
No more shall wake them from their lowly Bed.
For them no
more the blazing Hearth shall burn,
Or busy Houswife 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 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 Pow'r,
And all that Beauty, all that
Wealth e'er gave,
Awaits alike th' inevitable Hour.
The Paths of
Glory lead but to the Grave.
Forgive, ye Proud, th' involuntary Fault,

If Memory to these no Trophies raise,
Where thro' the long-drawn
Isle 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?
Can Honour's Voice provoke the silent Dust,
Or
Flatt'ry sooth the dull cold Ear of Death!
Perhaps in this neglected
Spot is laid
Some Heart once pregnant with celestial Fire,
Hands
that the Reins of Empire might have sway'd,
Or wak'd to Extacy the
living Lyre.
But Knowledge to their Eyes her ample Page
Rich with
the Spoils of Time did ne'er unroll;
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 desart 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,
The Threats
of Pain and Ruin to despise,

To scatter Plenty o'er a smiling Land,

And read their Hist'ry in a Nation's Eyes
Their Lot forbad: nor
circumscrib'd alone
Their growing Virtues, but their Crimes confin'd;

Forbad 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 learn'd to stray;
Along the cool sequester'd Vale of Life


They kept the noiseless Tenor of their Way.
Yet ev'n these Bones
from Insult to protect
Some frail Memorial still erected nigh,
With
uncouth Rhimes and shapeless Sculpture deck'd,
Implores the passing
Tribute of a Sigh.
Their Name, their Years, spelt by th' unlettered
Muse, The Place of Fame and Elegy supply:
And many a holy Text
around she strews,
That teach the rustic Moralist to dye.
For who to
dumb Forgetfulness a Prey,
This pleasing anxious Being e'er resign'd,

Left the warm Precincts of the chearful Day,
Nor cast one longing
ling'ring Look behind!
On some fond Breast the parting Soul relies,

Some pious Drops the closing Eye requires;
Ev'n from the Tomb the
Voice of Nature cries
Awake, and faithful to her wonted Fires.
For thee, who mindful of th' unhonour'd Dead
Dost in these Lines
their artless Tale relate;
If chance, by lonely Contemplation led,

Some hidden 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.
'There at the Foot of yonder nodding Beech
'That wreathes its old
fantastic Roots so high,
'His listless Length at Noontide wou'd he
stretch,
'And pore upon the Brook that babbles by.
'Hard by yon Wood, now frowning as in Scorn,
'Mutt'ring his
wayward Fancies he wou'd 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 Church-way Path we saw him born.

'Approach and read (for thou can'st read) the Lay,
'Grav'd on the
Stone beneath yon aged Thorn.

The EPITAPH.
_Here rests his Head upon the Lap of Earth
A Youth to Fortune and
to Fame unknown:
Fair Science frown'd not 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 farther