The changeful moon, the circuit of the stars, Of time, and space, and fate's unbroken chain; The Mind supreme. They also feel her charms, 236. Thomas Gray. 1716-1771. (Manual, p. 380.) ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower, Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn, The swallow twittering 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 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; 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 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 desert air. Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood. The applause of listening senates to command, And read their history in a nation's eyes, Their lot forbade; nor circumscribed alone 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, Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride 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 e'en these bones, from insult to protect, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd, Their name, their years, spelt by the unletter'd Muse, And many a holy text around she strews, For who, to dumb Forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing, anxious being e'er resign'd, 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; For thee, who, mindful of the unhonour'd dead, Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, "Oft have we seen him, at the peep of dawn, There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech, Muttering his wayward fancies, he would rove; Or crazed with care, or cross'd in hopeless love. "One morn I miss'd him on the accustom'd 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 churchway-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 frown'd not on his humble birth, And Melancholy mark'd 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 gain'd from Heaven-'twas all he wish'd-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. 237. ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON COLLEGE. Ye distant spires! ye antique towers! That crown the watery glade Her Henry's holy shade; And ye that from the stately brow Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey, His silver-winding way : Ah, happy hills! ah, pleasing shade! I feel the gales that from ye blow A momentary bliss bestow, As, waving fresh their gladsome wing, Say, father Thames! for thou hast seen The captive linnet which enthral ? To chase the rolling circle's speed, While some, on earnest business bent, Their murmuring labours ply, 'Gainst graver hours, that bring constraint, To sweeten liberty; Some bold adventurers disdain The limits of their little reign, And unknown regions dare descry; Still as they run they look behind, Gay Hope is theirs, by Fancy fed, |