Ere the moist footsteps of a tear Oh! could a father's prayer répel The eye's sad grief, the bosom's swell! A darling child's allotted care Then thou, my babe, should'st slumber still, A parent's love thy peace should free, Sleep on, my child, thy slumber brief Soon wilt thou reck of cares unknown, Yet be thy lot, my babe, more blest→→→ A father's heart shall daily bear Then hail, sweet miniature of life! How fainly would I bend the knee, ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD. GRAY. THE Curfew tolls the knell of parting day, Now fades the glimm'ring landscape on the sight, Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r, 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, 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 pow'r, The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, Can storied urn, or animated bust, Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can honour's voice provoke the silent dust, Or flatt'ry sooth the dull cold ear of death? 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 ecstasy the living lyre. But knowledge to their eyes her ample page, Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unrol; 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 flow'r is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air. Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast Th' applause of list'ning senates to command, 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 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, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. Their names, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd 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, On some fond breast the parting soul relies, Some pious drops the closing eye requires, Even from the tomb the voice of nature cries, Even in our ashes live their wonted fires. |