66 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? 88 On some fond breast the parting soul relies, Some pious drops the closing eye requires; E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, E'en 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, 92 Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,—96 Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. There at the foot of yonder nodding beech 100 That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, His listless length at noontide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by. 104 "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 crazed with care, or cross'd in hopeless love. 108 "One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill, 66 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: 112 The next with dirges due in sad array Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne. Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay Graved on the stone beneath yon agèd 116 THE EPITAPH Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, He gain'd from Heav'n ('t was all he wish'd) No farther seek his merits to disclose, 124 Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, (There they alike in trembling hope repose,) The bosom of his Father and his God. 1751. Thomas Gray. 128 THANATOPSIS To him who, in the love of Nature, holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language: for his gayer hours She has a voice of gladness, and a smile And eloquence of beauty; and she glides Into his darker musings with a mild And healing sympathy, that steals away Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts Of the last bitter hour come like a blight. Over thy spirit, and sad images Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, To Nature's teachings, while from all around- ΙΟ In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground, Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears, 20 Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again; Thine individual being, shalt thou go To be a brother to the insensible rock, And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould. Yet not to thine eternal resting-place Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste,- Of the great tomb of man! The golden sun, 30 40 50 And millions in those solitudes, since first come And make their bed with thee. As the long train By those who in their turn shall follow them. So live, that when thy summons comes to join The innumerable caravan that moves To the pale realms of shade, where each shall take His chamber in the silent halls of death, Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. William Cullen Bryant. 1817. 80 |