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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,
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r,
Forgive, ye proud, th' involuntary fault,
Can storied urn or animated bust
Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid
But knowledge to their eyes her ample page
Full many a gem of purest ray serene,
a flower is born to blush unseen,
Some village -HAMPDEN that with dauntless breast
Th' applause of list'ning fenates to command,
Their lot forbad: nor circumscrib'd alone
The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,
Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,
Yet ev’n these bones from insult to protect
Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd
For who to dumb forgetfulness a prey,
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
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,
• The next with dirges due in fad array,
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.
« Here rests his head
the lap of earth
" Large was his bounty, and his soul fincere,
gave to mis’ry (all he had) a tear :
“ No farther feek his merits to disclose,
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
But sad occasion calls : who now forbears
Where are those hopes, where fied th’illusive scenes