And with a master's hand and prophet's fire
Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre—

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Dear lost companions of my tuneful art,
Dear as the light that visits these sad`eyes,
Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart,
Ye died amidst your dying country's cries!—

66

No more I weep. They do not sleep;
On yonder cliffs, a grisly band,

I see them sit! they linger yet,
Avengers of their native land;

With me in dreadful harmony they join,

And weave with bloody hand the tissue of thy line.

"Weave the warp, and weave the woof,

The winding sheet of Edward's race;
Give ample room and verge enough
The characters of hell to trace.

Mark the year, and mark the night,
When Severn shall re-echo with affright

The shrieks of death through Berkley's roof that ring;
Shrieks' of an agonizing king!—

“Mighty victor, mighty lord,3

Low on his funeral couch he lies!
No pitying heart, no eye afford
A tear to grace his obsequies.
Is the sable warrior fled?

Thy son

is gone. He rests among the dead.
The swarm that in thy noontide beam were born?
Gone to salute the rising morn.

Fair laughs the morn,3 and soft the zephyr blows,
While, proudly riding o'er the azure realm,

In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes;

Youth on the prow, and pleasure at the helm;
Regardless of the sweeping whirlwind's sway,

That, hush'd in grim repose, expects his evening prey

1 In allusion to the murder of Edward II. 2 Death of Edward III. * In allusion to the auspicious commencement of Richard II.'s reign.

Fond impious man! think'st thou yon sanguine cloud,
Raised by thy breath, has quench'd the orb of day?
To-morrow he repairs the golden flood,

And warms the nations with redoubled ray.
Enough for me with joy I see

The different doom our fates assign,

Be thine Despair, and sceptred Care;
To triumph and to die are mine."

He spoke; and, headlong from the mountain's height,
Deep in the roaring tide he plunged to endless night.

XVII.-ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD.

THE curfew tolls the knell of parting day;
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea;
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness-and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds;
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;

Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r,
The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of such, as wandering near her secret bow'r,
Molest her ancient, solitary reign.

Beneath these 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 her 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;
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 pow'r,
And all that beauty, all that wealth, e'er gave,
Await, alike, the inevitable hour:

The paths of glory lead-but to the grave.

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,
If mem'ry 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 flatt'ry soothe 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 unroll;

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
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 history in a nation's eyes,

Their lot forbade: nor circumscrib'd 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,
(Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray.)
Along the cool sequester'd vale of life

They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

Yet even these bones from insult to protect,
Some frail memorial still erected nigh,

With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd,
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

Their name, their years, spell'd by th' unlettered 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.

This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd,
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
Nor cast one longing ling'ring look behind?

On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
Some pious drops the closing eye requires;
Ev'n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,
Ev'n in our ashes live their wonted fires.

For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead,
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;
If chance, by lonely contemplation led.

Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say—

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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.

"There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech,

That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, His listless length at noontide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,

Mutt'ring his wayward fancies, he would rove; Now drooping, woeful, wan, like one forlorn,

Or craz'd with care, or crossed in hopeless love. "One morn I miss'd him on th' 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 churchyard path we saw him borneApproach, and read (for thou canst read) the lay,

Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn."