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 th' unlettered 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 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;
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' unhonoured 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,

66

Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, "To meet the sun upon the upland lawn:

"There at the foot of yonder nodding beach,

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That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,

"His listless length at noontide would he stretch,

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And pore upon the brook that babbles 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 'customed 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 through the church-way path we saw him borne. Approach and read, (for thou canst read) the lay, "Graved 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 frowned not on his humble birth,
And Melancholy marked him for her own.

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere;
Heaven did a recompense as largely send;
He gave to Misery, (all he had) a tear;

He gained from Heaven ('t was all he wished) 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.

GRAY.

What the Voice said.

MADDENED by Earth's wrong and evil,

"Lord!" I cried in sudden ire,

"From thy right hand, clothed with thunder, Shake the bolted fire!

"Love is lost, and Faith is dying:
With the brute the man is sold;
And the dropping blood of labour
Hardens into gold.

"Here the dying wail of Famine,
There the battle's groan of pain;
And, in silence, smooth-faced Mammon
Reaping men like grain.

"Where is God, that we should fear Him?'

Thus the earth-born Titans say;

'God! if thou art living, hear us!'

Thus the weak ones pray.

"Thou, the patient Heaven upbraiding,"

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Spake a solemn Voice within;

Weary of our Lord's forbearance,
Art thou free from sin?

"Fearless brow to Him uplifting,
Canst thou for his thunders call,
Knowing that to guilt's attraction
Evermore they fall?

"Knowest thou not all germs of evil
In thy heart await their time?
Not thyself, but God's restraining,
Stays their growth of crime.

"Couldst thou boast, oh child of weakness!
O'er the sons of wrong and strife,
Were their strong temptations planted
In thy path of life?

"Thou hast seen two streamlets gushing
From one fountain, clear and free,
But by widely varying channels
Searching for the sea.

"Glideth one through greenest valleys,
Kissing them with lips still sweet,
One, mad roaring down the mountains,
Stagnates at their feet.

"Is it choice whereby the Parsee
Kneels before his mother's fire?
In his black tent did the Tartar
Choose his wandering sire?

"He alone, whose hand is bounding
Human power and human will,

Looking through each soul's surrounding, Knows its good or ill.

"For thyself, while wrong and sorrow Make to thee their strong appeal, Coward wert thou not to utter

What the heart must feel.

"Earnest words must needs be spoken,
When the warm heart bleeds, or burns,
With its scorn of wrong, or pity
For the wronged, by turns.

"But by all thy nature's weakness,
Hidden faults and follies known,
Be thou, in rebuking evil,
Conscious of thine own.

"Not the less shall stern-eyed Duty
To thy lips her trumpet set,
But with harsher blasts shall mingle
Wailings of regret."

Cease not, Voice of holy speaking,
Teacher sent of God, be near;

Whispering through the day's cool silence,
Let my spirit hear!

So, when thoughts of evil doers
Waken scorn or hatred move,
Shall a mournful fellow-feeling
Temper all with love.

WHITTIER.