Ambition this shall tempt to rise, Lo, in the vale of years beneath Those in the deeper vitals rage: To each his suff'rings: all are men, Yet ah! why should they know their No more; where ignorance is bliss, ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. 4 The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, 12 Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r, The moping owl does to the moon complain Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, 16 The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed, 24 For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, No children run to lisp their sire's return, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share 90 95 100 28 82 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, Awaits alike th' inevitable hour. 86 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 thro' the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault 40 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, 44 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, 48 Or wak'd to ecstasy the living lyre. 52 56 60 64 But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page 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 flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air. Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood. Th' applause of list'ning senates to command, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, And read their hist'ry in a nation's eyes, Their lot forbade: nor circumscrib'd alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd; Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, 68 And shut the gates of mercy on mankind, 72 76 80 84 88 92 96 100 104 The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd. Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd Muse, And many a holy text around she strews, 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, For thee, who mindful of th' unhonour'd 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, 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, 108 Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless love. 'One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill, Along the heath and near his fav'rite tree; Another came; nor yet beside the rill, 112 Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he; 116 120 124 128 "The next with dirges due in sad array Slow thro' the church-way path we saw him borne. Approach and read (for thou can'st read) the lay Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.' THE EPITAPH. 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. Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere; Heav'n did a recompense as largely send: He gave to Mis'ry all he had, a tear; He gain'd from heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) a friend. No farther 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. THE PROGRESS OF POESY. A PINDARIC ODE. [Comp. 1754-publ. 1757] I. Awake, Eolian lyre, awake, And give to rapture all thy trembling strings. A thousand rills their mazy progress take: Thro' verdant vales, and Ceres' golden reign: 10 Now rolling down the steep amain, Headlong, impetuous, see it pour; The rocks and nodding groves rebellow to the roar. Oh! Sovereign of the willing soul, Parent of sweet and solemn-breathing airs, 15 Enchanting shell! the sullen Cares And frantic Passions hear thy soft control. And drop'd his thirsty lance at thy command. 20 Perching on the scept'red hand Of Jove, thy magic lulls the feather'd king The terror of his beak, and lightnings of his eye. 25 Thee the voice, the dance, obey, Temper'd to thy warbled lay. The rosy-crowned Loves are seen 80 With antic Sports, and blue-eyed Pleasures, 35 Now pursuing, now retreating, Now in circling troops they meet: To brisk notes in cadence beating, Glance their many-twinkling feet. Slow melting strains their queen's approach declare: In gliding state she wins her easy way: 40 O'er her warm cheek, and rising bosom, move The bloom of young desire, and purple light of love. 45 II. Man's feeble race what ills await! Labour, and Penury, the racks of Pain, Disease, and Sorrow's weeping train, And Death, sad refuge from the storms of Fate! The fond complaint, my song, disprove, And justify the laws of Jove. Say, has he giv'n in vain the heav'nly Muse? Night, and all her sickly dews, 50 Her spectres wan, and birds of boding cry, He gives to range the dreary sky: Till down the eastern cliffs afar Hyperion's march they spy, and glitt'ring shafts of war. In climes beyond the solar road, 55 Where shaggy forms o'er ice-built mountains roam, The Muse has broke the twilight-gloom |