'Tis now become a history little known, That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid; The biscuit, or confectionery plum; The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed;— Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall, Not scorned in heaven, though little noticed here. And while the wings of fancy still are free, COWPER ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. THE curfew tolls the knell of parting day, Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower The moping owl does to the moon complain Beneath those rugged elms, that yew tree's shade, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, 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; 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 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 through 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? Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust, Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of Death? Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page, Chill Penury repressed their noblė rage, Full many a gem, of purest ray serene, The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear: Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast The applause of listening senates to command, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, And read their history in a nation's eyes, Their lot forbade: nor circumscribed alone The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. Yet even these bones from insult to protect, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked, Their name, their years, spelt by the unlettered Muse, And many a holy text around she strews, For who to dumb Forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing, anxious being, e'er resigned; On some fond breast the parting soul relies, For thee, who, mindful of the unhonoured dead, If chance, by lonely Contemplation led, 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. 66 There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech, Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove; 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 recompence as largely send: He gave to Misery all he had, a tear; 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. GRAY. |