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An ELEGY.

Written in a country church-yard.

The curfeu tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd winds 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,
And all the air a folemn stillness holds ;
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
Or drowsy tincklings lull the distant folds.

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r
The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of fuch as, wand'ring near her secret bow'r,
Moleft her ancient folitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's fhade, Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,

The rude fore-fathers of the hamlet fleep.

The breezy call of incenfe breathing morn,

The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built fhed, The cock's fhrill clarion, or the echoing horn,

No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth fhall burn,
Or bufy housewife ply her evening care:
No children run to lifp their fire's return,
Or climb his knees the envy'd kifs to fhare.

Oft did the harvest to their fickle yield,

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; How jocund did they drive their team a field! How bow'd the woods beneath their fturdy ftroke!

Let not ambition mock their useful toil,

Their homely joys, and deftiny obfcure;
Nor grandeur hear with a difdainful fmile,
The fhort and fimple annals of the poor.

The boaft 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.

E

Forgive, ye proud, th' involuntary fault,

If memory to these no trophies raise,

Where through the long-drawn ifle and fretted vault The pealing anthem fwells the notes of praise.

Can ftoried urn, or animated buft,

Back to its manfion call the fleeting breath?
Can honour's voice provoke the filent 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 fway'd, Or wak'd to extafy the living lyre.

But knowledge to their eyes her ample page,
Rich with the fpoils of time, did ne'er unro
Chill penury reprefs'd their noble

rage,
And froze the genial current of the foul.

Full many a gem of pureft ray ferene,

The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear:
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And wafte its fweetnefs on the defert air.

Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breaft
The little tyrant of his fields withstood;
Some mute inglorious Milton here may reft,
Some Cromwell guiltlefs of his country's blood.
Th' applaufe of lift'ning fenates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to defpife,
To fcatter plenty o'er a fmiling land,

And read their history in a nation's eyes

Their lot forbad; nor circumfcrib'd alone

Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd; Forbad to wade through flaughter to a throne, And shut the gates of mercy on mankind, The ftruggling pangs of confcious truth to hide, To quench the blufhes of ingenuous fhame, Or heap the fhrine of luxury and pride

With incenfe, kindled at the mufe's flame.

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

Yet e'en these bones from infult to protect,
Some frail memorial ftill erected nigh,
With uncouth rhymes and fhapelefs fculpture deck'd,
Implores the passing tribute of a figh.

Their name, their years, fpelt by th' unletter'd mufe,
The place of fame and elegy fupply;
And many a holy text around the ftrews,
That teach the ruftic moralist to die.

For who to dumb forgetfulness a prey,
This pleafing anxious being e'er refign'd,
Left the warm precincts of the chearful day,
Nor caft one longing, ling'ring look behind?
On fome fond breaft the parting foul relies,
Some pious drops the clofing 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 thefe lines their artlefs tale relate;
If chance, by lonely contemplation led,
Some kindred spirit fhall inquire thy fate.

Haply, fome hoary-headed fwain may say,

Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn Brushing with hafty steps the dews away, • To meet the fun upon the upland lawn. There at the foot of yonder nodding beech That wreathes its old fantastic roots fo high, His liftlefs length at noon-tide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by. Hard by yon wood, now fmiling as in fcorn, Mutt'ring his wayward fancies he would rove, Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn, Or craz'd with care, or crofs'd in hopeless love.

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• One morn I miss'd him on th' accustom'd hill,

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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 faw him borne.
Approach and read (for thou can't read) the lay,
Grav'd on the ftone beneath yon aged thorn.

There fcatter'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 foofteps lightly print the ground.

The EPITAPH.

Here refts 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 foul fincere,
• Heav'n did a recompence as largely fend:

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 feek his merits to disclose,

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, (There they alike in trembling hope repose) The bofom of his father and his God.'

We have already obferved that any dreadful catastrophe is a proper fubject for Elegy; and what can be more fo than a civil war, where the fathers and children, the dearest relations and friends, meet each other in arms? We have on this fubject a most affecting Elegy, intituled the Tears of Scotland, afcribed to Dr. Smollet, and fet to mufic by Mr. Ofwald, juft after the late rebellion.

The Tears of SCOTLAND. Written in the Year 1746.

I.

Mourn, hapless CALEDONIA, mourn
Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn !

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Thy fons, for valour long renown'd,
Lie flaughter'd on their native ground;
Thy hofpitable roofs no more

Invite the ftranger to the door;
In fmoaky ruins funk they lie,
The monuments of cruelty.

II.

The wretched owner fees afar His all become the prey of war; Bethinks him of his babes and wife, Then fmites his breaft, and curfes life. Thy fwains are famish'd on the rocks, Where once they fed their wanton flocks: Thy ravish'd virgins fhriek in vain ; Thy infants perish on the plain.

III.

What boots it then, in every clime, Thro' the wide fpreading waste of time, Thy martial glory, crown'd with praise, Still fhone with undiminish'd blaze? Thy tow'ring fpirit now is broke, Thy neck is bended to the yoke. What foreign arms could never quell, By civil rage, and rancour fell.

IV.

The rural pipe, and merry lay, No more fhall chear the happy day: No focial scenes of gay delight Beguile the dreary winter night: No ftrains but those of forrow flow, And nought be heard but founds of woe; While the pale phantoms of the flain Glide nightly o'er the filent plain.

V.

Oh baneful caufe, oh! fatal morn,
Accurs'd to ages yet unborn!.
The fons against their fathers food,
The
parent fhed his children's blood.

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