Now fades the glimmering landscape on

the sight,

And all the air a solemn stillness holds,

Await alike th' inevitable hour:-
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

flight,

And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds:

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower The moping owl does to the moon complain

Of such as, wandering near her secret bower,

Molest her ancient solitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew tree's shade,

Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap,

Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow twittering from the strawbuilt shed,

fault

If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise,

Where through the long-drawn aisle 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 Honor's voice provoke the silent dust, Or Flattery soothe 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 waked to ecstasy the living lyre:

horn,

No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

page

Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll;

burn

Or busy housewife ply her evening care: No children run to lisp their sire's return, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

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

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 flower is born to blush un

seen,

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 here may rest,

Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood.

confined;

Forbade 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 sequester'd vale of life

They kept the noiseless tenor of their

way.

Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect

Some frail memorial still erected nigh, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculp

ture deck'd,

Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

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

The place of fame and elegy supply: And many a holy text around she strews That teach the rustic moralist to die.

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd,

Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,

Nor cast one longing lingering 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.

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 noontide would he stretch,

And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

"Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in

scorn,

Muttering his wayward fancies he would

rove;

Now drooping, woeful-wan, like one forlorn,

Or crazed 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 favorite tree;

Another came, nor yet beside the rill,
Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was

he;

"The next with dirges due in sad array Slow through the churchway path we

saw him borne; Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay

Graved 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.

Dost in these lines their artless tale re

late,

cere ;

Heaven did a recompense as largely

send:

He gave to Misery all he had,- -a tear, He gain'd from Heaven-'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.

THOMAS GRAY.

LINES WRITTEN IN RICHMOND CHURCHYARD, YORKSHIRE.

METHINKS it is good to be here;

If thou wilt, let us build,-but for whom? Nor Elias nor Moses appear,

But the shadows of eve that encompass the gloom,

The abode of the dead and the place of the tomb.

Shall we build to Ambition? Oh, no! Affrighted, he shrinketh away;

For, see! they would pin him below, In a small, narrow cave, and, begirt with cold clay,

To the meanest of reptiles a peer and a prey.

To Beauty? ah, no! She forgets The charms which she wielded before, Nor knows the foul worm that he frets The skin which but yesterday fools could adore,

For the smoothness it held, or the tint which it wore.

Shall we build to the purple of Pride, The trappings which 'dizen the proud? Alas! they are all laid aside,

And here's neither dress nor adornment

allow'd,

But the long winding-sheet and the fringe

of the shroud.

To Riches? alas! 'tis in vain;

Who hid, in their turn have been hid;
The treasures are squander'd again,

And here in the grave are all metals forbid,

To the pleasures which Mirth can afford,The revel, the laugh, and the jeer?

Ah! here is a plentiful board! But the guests are all mute as their pitiful cheer,

And none but the worm is a reveller here.

Shall we build to Affection and Love? Ah, no! they have wither'd and died, Or fled with the spirit above: Friends, brothers, and sisters are laid side by side,

Yet none have saluted, and none have replied.

Unto Sorrow?-The dead cannot grieve; Not a sob, not a sigh meets mine ear,

Which compassion itself could relieve. Ah! sweetly they slumber, nor hope, love, nor fear,

Peace, peace is the watchword, the only one here!

Unto Death, to whom monarchs must bow?

Ah, no! for his empire is known,

And here there are trophies enow! Beneath, the cold dead, and around, the dark stone,

Are the signs of a sceptre that none may disown!

The first tabernacle to Hope we will

build,

And look for the sleepers around us to rise;

The second to Faith, which ensures it

fulfill'd;

And the third to the Lamb of the great sacrifice,

Who bequeathed us them both when he rose to the skies.

HERBERT KNOWLES.

HALLOWED GROUND.

WHAT'S hallow'd ground? Has earth a

clod

Its Maker meant not should be trod By man, the image of his God, Erect and free,

fin-lid.

To bow the knee?

miss'd,

chase,

Shall still be dear.

birth

To sacred thoughts in souls of worth!

Peace! Independence! Truth! go forth,

Earth's compass round;

And your high priesthood shall make earth

All hallow'd ground!

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

EPITAPH UPON HUSBAND AND
WIFE

WHO DIED AND WERE BURIED TOGETHER.
To these, whom death again did wed,
This grave's the second marriage-bed,
For though the hand of fate could force
"Twixt soul and body a divorce,
It could not sever man and wife,
Because they both lived but one life.
Peace, good reader, do not weep
Peace, the lovers are asleep!
They (sweet turtles) folded lie,
In the last knot love could tie.
Let them sleep, let them sleep on,
Till this stormy night be gone,
And the eternal morrow dawn;
Then the curtains will be drawn,
And they wake into a light
Whose day shall never end in night.

RICHARD CRASHAW.

ELEGY TO THE MEMORY OF AN UNFORTUNATE LADY.

WHAT beck'ning ghost, along the moonlight shade,

glade?

'Tis she!—but why that bleeding bosom gored?

Why dimly gleams the visionary sword?
O ever beauteous! ever friendly! tell,
Is it in Heav'n a crime to love too well?
To bear too tender or too firm a heart,
To act a lover's or a Roman's part?
Is there no bright reversion in the sky
For those who greatly think or bravely
die?

And frequent hearses shall besiege your gates:

There passengers shall stand, and pointing

say

(While the long fun'rals blacken all the way),

"Lo! these were they, whose souls the Furies steel'd,

And cursed with hearts unknowing how to yield."

Thus unlamented pass the proud away,

aspire

Above the vulgar flight of low desire? Ambition first sprung from your blest

abodes,

The glorious fault of angels and of gods:

So perish all, whose breast ne'er learn'd to glow

For others' good, or melt at others' woe.

What can atone (O ever-injured shade!) Thy fate unpitied and thy rites unpaid?