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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,

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Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.
Oft did the harvest to their fickle 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 ftroke!
Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor Grandeur hear with a difdainful fmile
The short and fimple annals of the poor.
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Await alike th' inevitable hour.

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The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
Nor you, ye Proud, impute to These the fault,
If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise,
Where through the long-drawn aisle' and fretted
vault

The pealing anthem fwells the note of praise. 40
Can ftoried urn or animated buft

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
Can Honour's voice provoke the filent dust,

Or Flatt'ry footh the dull cold ear of Death?
Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid

Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;

V. 39. ifle.

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Hands, that the rod 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 spoils of time did ne'er unroll; 50
Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage,

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And froze the genial current of the soul.
Full many a gem of pureft ray ferene,
The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear :
Full many a flower is born to blush unfeen,
And waste its sweetness on the defert air.
Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast
The little Tyrant of his fields withstood;
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,
Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood. 60
Th' applause of liftening fenates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
To scatter plenty o'er a fmiling land,
And read their hist'ry in a nation's eyes,

Their lot forbad: nor circumfcrib'd alone

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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 struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,
Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride
With incenfe kindled at the Mufe's flame.
Far from the madding crowd's ignoble ftrife,
Their fober wishes never learn'd to stray;

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Along the cool fequefter'd vale of life
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.
Yet ev❜n these bones from infult to protect
Some frail memorial ftill erected nigh,

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With uncouth rhimes and shapeless sculpture deck'd, Implores the paffing tribute of a figh.

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Their name, their years, fpelt by th' unletter'd mufe, The place of fame and elegy fupply;

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And many a holy text around she strews,
That teach the ruftic moralift 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,
Ev'n in our Ashes live their wonted Fires.
For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd Dead,
Doft in thefe lines their artless tale relate;
If chance, by lonely Contemplation led,
Some kindred Spirit shall inquire thy fate,
Haply fome hoary-headed Swain may say,
Oft have we feen him at the peep of dawn
Brushing with hafty fteps 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,

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• His liftless length at noontide would he ftretch, • And pore upon the brook that babbles by. • Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in fcorn, 105 Mutt'ring his wayward fancies he would rove, Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn, • Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless love. • One morn I mifs'd him on the cuftom'd hill, Along the heath, and near his fav'rite tree;

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• 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

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Slow thro' the church-way path we saw him born. Approach and read (for thou can't read) the lay, Grav'd on the ftone, beneath yon aged thorn.' * ›

THE EPITAPH.

HERE refts his head upon the lap of Earth
A Youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown:

* Between this line and the Epitaph, Mr. Gray originally inferted a very beautiful ftanza, which was printed in fome of the first editions, but afterwards omitted; becaufe he thought fand in my own opinion very july) that it was too Jong a parenthefis in this place. The lines however, are, in themselves, exquifitely fine, and demand prefervation,

There fcatter'd oft, the earliest of the year,
By hands unfeen are fhow'rs of violets found;
The redbreaft loves to build and warble there,
And little footsteps lightly print the ground.

MASON.

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,

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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 repofe,) The bofom of his Father and his God.

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