a

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,
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Forgive, ye proud, th' involuntary fault,
If memory to these no trophies raise,
Where thro' the long-drawn ille and fretted vault.
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 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 reins of empire might have sway'd,
Or wak'd to extasy the living lyre.

But knowledge to their eyes her ample page
Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll;
Chill penury repress'd their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the soul.

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a

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 desart air.

Some village -HAMPDEN that with dauntless breast
The little tyrant of his fields withstood ;
Some mute inglorious Milton here may reft,
Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood.

Th' applause of list'ning fenates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,
And read their hist'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 slaughter to a throne,
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind,

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,
Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride
With incense, kindled at the muse's flame.

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

Yet ev’n these bones from insult to protect
Some frail memorial still erected nigh,
With uncouth rhimes and shapeless sculpture deck d,
Implores the pafling tribute of a figh.

Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd

muse,
The place of fame and elegy supply:
And many a holy text around the strews,
That teach the ruiste moralift to dye.

For who to dumb forgetfulness a prey,
This pleasing anxious being e'er resignd,
Left the warm precincts of the chearful day,
Nor cast one longing ling’ring look behind ?

On some fond breast the parting foul relies, Some pious drops the closing eye requires ; Ev’n from the tomb the voice of nature cries, Awake and faithful to her wonted fires.

For thee, who mindful of th' unhonour'd dead Doft in these lines their artless tale relate; If chance, by lonely contemplation led, Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, « Oft have we seen him at the

peep

of dawn Brushing with hafty steps the dews away, • To ineet the sun. upon the upland lawn.

• 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 wou'd rove, • Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn, i 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,
• Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he.

• The next with dirges due in fad array,
• Slow thro' church-way path

saw him borne. • Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay, • Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.

" There scatter'd oft, the earliest of the year, By hands unseen, are show'rs of violets found; « The red-breast loves to build and warble there, . And little footsteps lightly print the ground.

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 fincere,
“ Heay'n did a recompence as largely send :

gave to mis’ry (all he had) a tear :
“ He gain'd from heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) a friend.

“ No farther feek 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.

" He

ON

THE

DEATH

OF

FREDERIC PRINCE OF WALES.

WRITTEN AT PARIS, BY DAVID LORD VISCOUNT

STORMONT, OF CH. CH. Oxon.

LITTLE I whilom deemd, my artless zeal

Should woo the British Muse in foreign land
To strains of bitter argument, and teach
The mimic Nymph, that haunts the winding verge
And oozy current of Parisian Seine,
To fyllable new founds in accent strange.

But sad occasion calls : who now forbears
The last kind office? who but consecrates
His off’ring at the shrine of fair Renown
To gracious Frederic rais’d; tho' but compos'd
Of the waste flourets, whose neglected hues
Chequer the lonely hedge, or mountain flope?

Where are those hopes, where fied th’illusive scenes
That forgeful Fancy plan'd, what time the bark
Stem'd the salt wave from Albion's chalky bourn?
Then filial Piety and parting Love
Pour'd the fond pray'r; “ Farewell, ye less’ning

66 cliffs,