Selections from Five English Poets | Page 4

the distant folds;
Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r The moping owl does to the moon complain 10 Of such, as wand'ring near her secret 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, 15 The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn,[2] The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. 20
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, 25 Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe[3] 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; 30 Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor.
The boast of heraldry,[4] the pomp of pow'r, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Awaits alike th' inevitable hour. 35 The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
Nor you, ye Proud, impute to these the fault, If Mem'ry o'er their tomb no trophies raise, Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault[5] The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. 40
Can storied urn[6] or animated[7] bust Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can Honour's voice provoke[8] the silent dust, Or Flatt'ry sooth the dull cold ear of Death?
Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 45 Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.
But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll; 50 Chill Penury repressed their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.
Full many a gem of purest ray serene[9] The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear: Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, 55 And waste its sweetness on the desert air.
Some village-Hampden,[10] that with dauntless breast, The little Tyrant of his fields withstood, Some mute inglorious Milton[11] here may rest, Some Cromwell[12] guiltless of his country's blood. 60
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 forbade: nor circumscribed alone 65 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, 70 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 75 They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.
Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect, Some frail memorial still[13] erected nigh, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 80
Their name, their years, spelt by th' unlettered Muse,[14] 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, 85 This pleasing anxious being e'er resigned, 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; 90 Ev'n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, Ev'n in our ashes live their wonted fires.
For thee, who mindful of th' unhonored Dead[15] Dost in these lines their artless tale relate; If chance,[16] by lonely Contemplation led, 95 Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,
Haply some hoary-headed swain[17] 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.[18] 100
"There at the foot of yonder nodding beech, That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, His listless length at noontide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by.
"Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, 105 Mutt'ring his wayward fancies he would rove; Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn, Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love.
"One morn I missed him on the customed hill, Along the heath and near his fav'rite tree; 110 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