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Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds. Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower,
The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such as, wand'ring near her secret bower,
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 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:
This verse seems to have strong features of similarity with the following in Collin's “ Ode to Evening :"
« Now air is hush'd, save where the weak-ey'd bat 66 With short shrill shriek flitts by on leathern wing, " Or where the beetle winds
His small but sullen horn."
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 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 power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Await alike th' inevitable hour.
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.
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 sway'd,
Or wak'd to ecstacy the living lyre.
Rich with the spoils of Time did ne'er unroll;
And froze the genial current of the soul. Full many a gem of purest ray serene
The dark unfathom’d caves of Ocean beår: Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.
 This beautiful comparison of the Gem and the Flower seems borrowed (but with added force and elegance) from Dr. Young.
Such blessings Nature pours,
Universal Passion, Sat. V.
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 forbade: nor circumscrib'd alone
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd;
 Mr. Edwards (Author of the Canons of Criticism), who, though an old bachelor, like Mr. Gray, was more attentive to the fair sex than our Pindaric Poet, endeavoured to supply what he thought a defect in this admired Poem, by introducing after this the two following stanzas, the first of which is certainly the happiest effort of the two:
Some lovely fair, whose unaffected charms
Shone with attraction to herself unknown; Whose beauty might have blest a monarch's arms,
And virtue cast a lustre on the throne :
That humble beauty warm’d an honest heart,
And cheer'd the labours of a faithful spouse;
The healthy offspring that adorn'd their house.
Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind,
To quench the blushes of ingenuous Shame,
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 tenour of their way,
 After this verse, in Mr. Gray's first MS. of the Poem, were the four following:
The thoughtless world to Majesty may bow,
Exalt the brave, and idolize success; But more to innocence their safety owe,
Than Pow'ror Genius e'er conspir'd to bless.
And thou who, mindful of th’unhonour'd Dead,
Dost in these notes their artless tale relate, By night and lonely contemplation led
To wander in the gloomy walks of fate :
Bids every fierce tumultuous passion cease;
A grateful earnest of eternal peace.