ELEGY IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. 287

"Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Muttering his wayward fancies, would he rove; Now drooping, woeful-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 favorite 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 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 ('twas 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.

THOMAS GRAY.

On the Receipt of my Mother's Picture.

OH

H that those lips had language! Life has passed
With me but roughly since I heard thee last.
Those lips are thine-thy own sweet smile I see,
The same that oft in childhood solaced me;
Voice only fails-else how distinct they say
“Grieve not, my child—chase all thy fears away!"
The meek intelligence of those dear eyes-
(Blest be the art that can immortalize:

The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim

To quench it !)—here shines on me still the same,
Faithful remembrancer of one so dear!

O welcome guest, though unexpected here!
Who bidd'st me honor with an artless song,
Affectionate, a mother lost so long.

I will obey-not willingly alone,

But gladly, as the precept were her own;
And, while that face renews my filial grief,
Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief—
Shall steep me in Elysian reverie :

A momentary dream that thou art she.

My mother! when I learned that thou wast dead,
Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed?
Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son-
Wretched e'en then, life's journey just begun?
Perhaps thou gavest me, though unfelt, a kiss ;
Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss-
Ah, that maternal smile! it answers-Yes.
I heard the bell tolled on thy burial-day ;
I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away;
And, turning from my nursery window, drew
A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu !
But was it such? It was. Where thou art gone
Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown;
May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore,
The parting word shall pass my lips no more.

RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE. 289

Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern,
Oft gave me promise of thy quick return;
What ardently I wished, I long believed,
And, disappointed still, was still deceived-
By expectation every day beguiled,
Dupe of to-morrow even from a child.
Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went,
Till, all my stock of infant sorrows spent,
I learned at last submission to my lot;

But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot.

Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more-
Children not thine have trod my nursery floor;
And where the gardener, Robin, day by day,
Drew me to school along the public way—
Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapped
In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capped-
'Tis now become a history little known,
That once we called the pastoral house our own.
Short-lived possession! but the record fair,
That memory keeps of all thy kindness there,
Still outlives many a storm that has effaced
A thousand other themes, less deeply traced;
Thy nightly visits to ay chamber made,

That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid;
Thy morning bounties ere I left my home,

The biscuit or confectionery plum:

The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed
By thine own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed.

All this, and more endearing still than all,

Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall-
Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and breaks
That humor, interposed, too often makes;
All this, still legible in memory's page,
And still to be so to my latest age,
Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay
Such honors to thee as my numbers may—
Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere-

Not scorned in heaven, though little noticed here,

Could time, his flight reversed, restore the hours, When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowersThe violet, the pink, the jessamine,—

I pricked them into paper with a pin,

(And thou wast happier than myself the while-
Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head and smile)—
Could those few pleasant days again appear,
Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here?
I would not trust my heart-the dear delight
Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might.
But no-what here we call our life is such,
So little to be loved, and thou so much,
That I should ill requite thee to constrain
Thy unbound spirit into bonds again.

Thou as a gallant bark, from Albion's coast,
(The storms all weathered, and the ocean crossed,)
Shoots into port at some well-havened isle,
Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile,
There sits quiescent on the floods, that show
Her beauteous form reflected clear below,
While airs impregnated with incense play
Around her, fanning light her streamers gay,—

So thou, with sails how swift! hast reached the shore
"Where tempests never beat, nor billows roar;"
And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide
Of life long since has anchored by thy side.
But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest,
Always from port withheld, always distressed,
Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest-tossed,
Sails ripped, seams opening wide, and compass lost;
And day by day some current's thwarting force
Sets me more distant from a prosperous course.
Yet oh, the thought, that thou art safe, and he!
That thought is joy, arrive what may to me.
My boast is not that I deduce my birth
From loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth;
But higher far my proud pretensions rise,—
The son of parents passed into the skies.

COWPER'S GRAVE.

And now, farewell!-Time, unrevoked, has run
His wonted course: yet what I wished is done.
By contemplation's help, not sought in vain,
I seem to have lived my childhood o'er again—
To have renewed the joys that once were mine,
Without the sin of violating thine:
And while the wings of fancy still are free,
And I can view this mimic show of thee,
Time has but half succeeded in his theft,
Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left.

291

WILLIAM COWPER.

Cowper's Grave

T is a place where poets crowned may feel the heart's decaying,

It is a place where happy saints may weep amid their praying:

Yet let the grief and humbleness, as low as silence, languish— Earth surely now may give her calm to whom she gave her anguish !

O poets! from a maniac's tongue was poured the deathless singing!

O Christians! at your cross of hope a hopeless hand was clinging!

O men! this man, in brotherhood, your weary paths beguil

ing,

Groaned inly while he taught you peace, and died while ye were smiling!

And now, what time ye all may read through dimming tears his story,

How discord on the music fell, and darkness on the glory, And how, when one by one sweet sounds and wandering lights departed,

He wore no less a loving face because so broken-hearted;