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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 teams 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 bear with a disdainful smile

The short and simple annals of the poor. The boast of heraldry, che pomp of pow'r,

And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Await, alike, th' inevitable hour;

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,

The pealing anthem swells the vote of praise.
Can storied urn, or animated bust,
| Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
Can honour's voice provoke the silent dust,

Or flatt'ry sooth 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,

Or wake to ecstacy the living lyre.
But knowledge to their eyes her ample page,

Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unrol ;
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 flow'r is born to blush unseen,

And waste its sweetness on the desert air.
Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast

The little tyrant of his fields withstood;
Some mute inglorious Milton liere may rest ;

Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood. Th' applause of listning senates 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 forbade : nor circumscrib'd alone

Their growing virtues ; but their crimes confin'd, Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,

And shut the gates of mercy on mankind;

Their name,

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 sequester'd vale of life

They kept the noiseless tenour of their way. Yet'e'en these bones from insult to protect,

Some frail memorial still erected nigh, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'a, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

their years, spelt by th' unletter'd muse, The place of fame and elegy supply : , And many a boly text around she strews,

That teach the rustic moralist to die ; For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,

This pleasing, anxious being ere 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,

Some pious drops the closing eye requires :
E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries,

E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.
For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead,

Dost 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 hasty steps, the dews away,

To meet 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 noon-tide would he stretch,

And pore upon the brook that bubbles by. Hard by yon wood, now smiling, as in scorn,

Mutt'ring his wayward fancies, he would rove; Now drooping, woful, wan, like one forlorn,

Or craz'd with care, or cross’d in hopeless love,
One morn I missd him on the accustom'd hill,

Along the heath, and near his fav’rite tree :
Another came ; nor yet beside the rill,

ор the lawn, nor at the wood was he.

The next, with dirges due, in sad array,

Slow thro' the church-yard path we saw him borne : Approach and read (for thou canst read the lay, Gray'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.



Ode to Wisdom.
The solitary bird of night
Thro’ the pale shades now wings his flight,

And quits the time-shook tow'r,
Where, shelter'd from the blaze of day
In philosophic gloom he lay,

Beneath his ivy bow'r.
With joy I hear the solemn sound,
Which midnight echoes waft around,

And sighing gales repeat:
Fav'rite of Pallas ! I attend,
And, faithful to thy summons, bend

At Wisdom's awful seat.
She loves the cool, the silent eve,
Where no false shows of life deceive,
Beneath the lunar

ray :
Here Folly drops each vain disguise,
Nor sports her gaily-colour'a dyes,

As in the glare of day.
O Pallas ! queen of ev'ry art
That glads the sense or mends the heart

Blest source of purer joys;

In ev'ry form of beauty bright,
That captivates the mental sight

With pleasure and surprize;
To thy unspotted shrine I bow,
Assist thy modest suppliant's vow,

That breathes Do wild desires:
But, taught by thy unerring rules
To shun the fruitless wish of fools,

To nobler views aspires.
Not Fortune's gem, Ambition's plume,
Nor Cytherea's fading bloom,

Be objects of my prayer:
Let av’rice, vanity, and pride,
These glitt'ring envied toys divide,

The dull rewards of care.
To me thy better gifts impart,
Each moral beauty of the heart,

By studious thought refin'd:
For wealth, the smiles of glad contents
For pow'r, its amplest, best extent,

An empire o'er my mind.
When Fortune drops her gay parade,
When Pleasure's transient roses fade,

And wither in the tomb,
Unchang'd is thy immortal prize,
Thy ever-verdant laurels rise

In undecaying bloom.
By thee protected, I defy
The coxcomb's sneer, che stupid lie

Of ignorance and spite;
Alike contemn the leaden fool,
And all the pointed ridicule

Of undiscerning wit.
From envy, hurry, noise, and strife,
The dull impertinence of life,

In thy retreat I rest ;
Pursue thee to thy peaceful groves,
Where Plato’s sacred spirit rokes,

In all thy graces drest.
He bid Ilyssus' tuneful stream
Convey the philosophic theme

Of perfect fair, and good :
Attentive Athens caught the sound,
And all her listning sons around,

In awful silence stood.

Reclaim'd, her wild licentious youth
Confess'd the potent voice of truth,

And felt its just control :
The passions ceas’d their loud alarms,
And virtue's soft persuasive charms

O'er all their senses stole,
Thy breath inspires the poet's song,
The patriot's free unbiass'd tongue,

The hero's gen'rous strife :
Tbine are retirement's silent joys,
And all the sweet endearing ties

Of still, domestic life.
No more to fabled names confin'd,
To thee, supreme, all-perfect mind,

My thoughts direct their flight:Wisdom's thy gift, and all her force From thee deriv'd, unchanging source

Of intellectual light !
O send her sure, her steady rasa
To regulate my doubtful way,

Thro’ life's perplexing road ;
The mists of error to control;
And thro' its gloom direct my

To happiness and good!
Beneath her clear discerning eye
The visionary shadows fly

Of Folly's painted show.
She sees, thro' ev'ry fair disguise,
That all but Virtue's solid joys

Is vanity and wo. CARTER.


The Rake and the Hemait.

A YOUTA, a pupil of the town,
Philosopher and atheist grown,
Benighted once upon the road,
Found out a hermit's lone abode,

Those hospitality in need
Reliev'd the trav’ller and his steed,
For both sufficiently were tir'd,
Well drench'd in ditches, and bemird.

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