XIV. Full many a gem of purest ray serene XV. Some village Hampden that, with dauntless breast, The little tyrant of his fields withstood; XVI. Th' applause of list'ning senates to command, XVII. Their lot forbad: nor circumscrib'd alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined: Forbad to wade through slaughter to a throne, And shut the gates of mercy on mankind; B XVIII. The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, XIX. Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, XX. 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. XXI. Their name, 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. XXII. For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, XXIII. On some fond breast the parting soul relies, Some pious drops the closing eye requires: Even from the grave the voice of nature cries; Even in our ashes live their wonted fires." XXIV. For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead, Do'st in these lines their artless tale relate; If, chance, by lonely contemplation led, 1 Even in our ashes live their wonted fires.] PETR. Son. 169. XXV. Haply, some hoary-headed swain may say, "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. XXVI. "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. XXVII. "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 cross'd in hopeless love. XXVIII. "One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill, "Along the heath, and near his favourite tree: 'Another came; nor yet beside the rill, the lawn, nor at the wood was he. XXIX. "The next, with dirges due, in sad array, "Slow through the church-way path we saw ❝ him borne. "Approach and read (for thou can'st read) the lay, "Grav'd on his stone beneath yon aged thorn." THE EPITAPH. XXX. 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. XXXI. Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere ; He gave to misery all he had,-a tear; He gain'd from Heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) a Friend. |