AN ELEGY, Written in a Country Church Yard. This is a very fine poem, but overloaded with epithet. The heroic measure with alternate rhime is very properly adapted to the folemnity of the fubject, as it is the flowest movement that our language admits of. The latter part of the poem is pa thetic and interefting. HE Curfew tolls the knell of parting day, THE 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 ftillnefs holds, Save where the beetle wheels his drony flight, The rude forefathers of the hamlet fleep. The breezy call of incenfe-breathing morn, The swallow, twitt'ring from the straw-built shed, The cock's fhrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more fhall roufe them from their lowly bed. For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or bufy housewife ply her evening care: Nor children run to lifp their fire's return, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. Oft did the harvest to their fickle yield, Their furrow oft the ftubborn 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; The fhort and fimple annals of the poor. The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Back to its manfion call the fleeting breath ?. Some heart once pregnant with celeftial fire: Hands, Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'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 ; Chill Penury reprefs'd their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the foul. Full many a gem, of purest ray ferene, The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear; Full many a flow'r 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 reft; Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood. Th' applaufe of lift'ning fenates to command, The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling 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; With incenfe, kindled at the mufe's flame. Yet ev'n thefe bones from infult to protect, Some frail memorial still erected nigh, With uncouth rhimes and fhapelefs fculpture deck'd, Implores the paffing tribute of a figh. Their name, their years, fpelt by th' unletter'd muse, And many a holy text around she ftrews, This pleafing anxious being e'er refign'd, Some pious drops the clofing eye requires: His liftless length at noon-tide would he ftretch, Now Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn, Along the heath, and near his fav'rite tree: Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he. The next, with dirges due, in fad array, Slow thro' the church-yard path we saw him borne. 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, 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, |