TH

The lowing herd wind flowly o'er the lea, The plowman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now

a Dr. Johnson obferves, that this Elegy abounds with images which find a mirrour in every mind, and with fentiments to which every bofom

VOL. IV.

A

returns

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the fight,
And all the air a folemn stillness holds,

Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower
The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of fuch as, wand'ring near her fecret bower,
Molest her ancient, folitary reign.

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 incenfe-breathing Morn,
The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built fhed,
The cock's fhrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
No more fhall rouse them from their lowly bed.

returns an echo. The four ftanzas beginning, Yet ev'n these bones are, fays he, original: I have never feen the sentiments in any other place; yet he that reads them here, perfuades himself that he has always felt

them.

IMITATION.

fquilla di lontano

Che paia 'l giorno pianger, che fi muore.

Dante Purg. 1. 8. G.

For

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her evening care;

No children run to lifp their fire's return,

Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

Oft did the harvest to their fickle 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 obfcure;
Nor Grandeur hear, with a difdainful fiile,
The short and fimple annals of the poor.

The boaft of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Await alike th' inevitable hour;

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,
Where through the long-drawn ifle and fretted vault
The pealing anthem fwells the note of praise.

Can ftoried urn, or animated bust,

Back to its manfion call the fleeting breath?
Can Honour's voice provoke the filent duft,
Or Flatt'ry footh 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 extafy the living lyre.

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page,
Rich with the spoils of Time, did neʼer unroll;
Chill Penury reprefs'd their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the foul.

Full many a gem, of pureft ray ferene,
The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear;
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And wafte its sweetness on the defert air.

Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast
The little Tyrant of his fields withstood,
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,
Some Cromwell guiltlefs of his country's blood.

Th' applause of lift'ning fenates to command,
The threats of pain and rain to despise,
To scatter plenty o'er a fimiling land,
And read their hift'ry in a nation's

eyes,

Their lot forbad: nor circumscrib'd alone

Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd;
Forbad to wade through flaughter to a throne,
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind,

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,
To quench the blufhes of ingenuous fhame,
Or heap the fhrine of Luxury and Pride

With incense kindled at the Mufe's flame.

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,
Their fober wishes never learn'd to stray;
Along the cool fequefter'd vale of life
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

VARIATIONS.

The thought!efs world to Majefty may bow,
Exalt the brave, and idolize fuccefs;

But more to innocence their fafety owe,

Than Pow'r or Genius e'er confpir'd to bless.

And thou, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd Dead,.
Doft in these notes their artlefs tale relate,
By night and lonely contemplation led
To wander in the gloomy walks of fate:

Hark! how the facred Calm, that breathes around,
Bids every fierce tumultuous paffion ceafe;
In still small accents whifpering from the ground
A grateful earneft of eternal peace.

No more, with reason and thyself at strife,
Give anxious cares and endlefs wifhes room;

But through the cool fequefter'd vale of life
Purfue the filent tenor of thy doom.

And here the Poem, fays Mr. Mason, was originally intended to con clude, before the happy idea of the hoary-headed Swain, &c. suggested itself to the Author. The third of these rejected ftanzas is not in ferior to any in the whole Elegy.