POE TR Y. ELEGY written in a COUNTRY CHURCH YARD. [By Mr. Gray.] HE curfew tolls the knell of parting day, 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 fades the glimmering landscape on the fight, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower, The moping owl does to the moon complain Beneath thofe rugged elms, that yew-tree's fhade, The rude Forefather's of the hamlet fleep. The breezy call of incenfe-breathing morn, For them no more the blazing hearth fhall burn, Or climb his knees the envied kifs to fhare. Oft Oft did the harvest to their fickle yield, Their furrow oft the ftubborn glebe has broke ; Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys and defliny obfcure: The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, Back to its manfion call the fleeting breath? Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celeftial fire; But knowledge to their eyes her ample page, Chill penury reprefsed their noble rage, Full many a gem of pureft ray ferene, The dark unfathoméd caves of ocean bear; Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its fweetnefs on the defart air, Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breaft The applause of listening senates to command, And read their hift'ry in a nation's eyes, Their lot forbade; nor circumfcribéd alone The ftruggling pangs of confcious truth to hide, With incenfe kindled at the mufe's flame, Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. Yet even these bones from infult to protect With uncouth rhimes and fhapeless sculpture deckèd, Their name, their years, fpelt by the unlettered mufe, And many a holy text around fhe ftrews, For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, This pleafing anxious being e'er resigned? Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor caft one longing, lingering look behind ? On On fome fond breast the parting foul relies; For thee, who mindful of the unhonoured dead To meet the fun upon the upland lawn. There at the foot of yonder nodding beech, That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, His liftless length at noontide would he ftretch, And pore upon the brook that bubbles by. Hard by yon wood, now fmiling as in fcorn, Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove, Now drooping, woeful man, like one forlorn, Or crazed with care, or crosséd in hopeless love. One morn I mifséd him on the customed hill, Along the heath and near his fav'rite tree; Another came; nor yet befide the rill, Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he; The next with dirges-due, in fad array, Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne; HERE The EPITAPH. ERE refts his head upon the lap of earth, Large Large was his bounty, and his foul fincere, He gained from heaven ('twas all be wifhed) a friend. No farther feek his merits' to difclofe, Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, (There they alike in trembling hope repose,) The bofom of his Father and his God. A The HER MIT: by Dr. Beattie. AT the clofe of the day, when the hamlet is ftill, A Hermit his fong of the night thus began; Ah, why thus abandoned to darkness and woe, And thy bofom no trace of misfortune retain. Yet, if pity infpire thee, ah cease not thy lay, Mourn, fweetest Complainer, Man calls thee to mourn : "Now gliding remote, on the verge of the sky, She fhone, and the planets were loft in her blaze. " 'Tis |