116 ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD. Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys and destiny obscure; The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, And all that beauty, all that wealth ere gave, ; 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, Can storied urn, or animated bust, Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Perhaps, in this neglected spot, is laid Some heart, once pregnant with celestial fire ; But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page, Chill Penury repressed their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul. Full many a gem of purest ray serene The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear; ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD. Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast Th' applause of listening senates to command, And read their history in a nation's eyes, Their lot forbad; nor circumscribed alone The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. Far from the madd'ning crowd's ignoble strife, They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect, Their name, their years, spelt by th' unlettered Muse, And many a holy text around she strews, 117 118 ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD. For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing, anxious being e'er resigned, 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 unhonoured dead, If, chance, by lonely Contemplation led, Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, Haply, some hoary-headed swain may say, "There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech, "Hard by yon wood, now smiling, as in scorn, Muttering his wayward fancies, he would rove: Now drooping, woful-wan, like one forlorn, Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love. "One morn I missed him on the accustomed 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; THE EPITAPH. Here rests his head upon the lap of earth Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere: He gave to misery all he had-a tear; He gained from Heaven-'twas all he wished-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. Sweet Mary. F I had thought thou couldst have died, That thou couldst mortal be; And thou shouldst smile no more. And still upon that face I look, And still the thought I will not brook But, when I speak, thou dost not say What thou ne'er left'st unsaid, And now I feel, as well I may, If thou wouldst stay even as thou art, I still might press thy silent heart, And where thy smiles have been! GRAY. |