Let not ambition mock their useful toil, |

Their homely joys, and destiny obscure'; | Nor grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile', | The short, and simple annals of the poor. I

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, |
And all that beauty, all that wealth', e'er gave, |
Await, alike, the 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, 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 honour'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 em'pire might have sway'd,
Or wak'd to ecstasy the living lyre. I

But knowledge to their eyes her ample page', ]
Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll; }
Chill penury repress'd their noble rage', |
And froze the genial current of the soul. I

Full many a gem of purest ray serene', |

The dark, unfathom'd caves of ocean, bear, ;|
Full many a flower, is born to blush unseen, |
And waste its sweetness on the desert air,.a |

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,. |

a Desert air; not dez-zer-tair.

The applause of list'ning 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; |

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', I ('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', J
With uncouth rhymes, and shapeless sculpture deck'd', |
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. |

Their names', their years', spell'd by the unletter'd muse',|
The place of fame, and elegy, supply; |
And many a holy text around she strews', I
That teach the rustic moralist to die. I

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, 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 ash'es live their wonted fires. |

For thee who, mindful of the 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 step, 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 bubbles by,. |

Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn', |
Mutt'ring his wayward fancies, he would rove';;
Now drooping, wo'ful, wan, like one forlorn',

Or craz❜d with care, or cross'd in hopeless love

One morn I miss'd him on the accustom'd hill', |
Along the heath', | and near his fav'rite 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 church-yard path', we saw him borne,

Approach, and read' ('for thou canst read') 'the lay', | "Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn."

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 -|
Heaven did a rec'ompense as largely send
He gave to Mis'ry all he had', a tear; |

He gain'd from Heav''n | (''t was all he wish'd) | 2a friend. I

No farther seek his merits to disclose', I

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, | (There they alike in trembling hope repose) | 2The bosom of his Father, and his God. |

DOUGLAS'S ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF.

(HOME.)

My name is Norval; | on the Grampian hills |
My father feeds his flocks; a frugal swain |
Whose constant cares | were to increase his store', |
And keep his only son, myself, at home. :|
For I had heard of bat'tles, and I long'd
To follow to the field some warlike lord; |
And heaven soon granted what my sire denied! |

This moon, which rose last night, round as my shield, |
Had not yet fill'd her horns, when by her light, |
A band of fierce barbarians from the hills, |
Rush'd like a torrent down upon the vale',
Sweeping our flocks, and herds. The shepherds fled
For safety, and for succour. I, alone',

With bended bow, and quiver full of arrows, |
Hover'd about the enemy, and mark'd

The road he took then hasted to my friends |
Whom, with a troop of fifty chosen men, |

I met advancing. The pursuit I led, |·
Till we o'ertook the spoil-encumber'd foe.

We fought, and conquer'd. | Ere a sword was drawn, |
An arrow from my bow had pierc'd their chief |
Who wore, that day, the arms which now I wear. |
Returning home in triumph, I disdain'd
The shepherd's slothful life.;

and, having heard |

That our good king had summon'd his bold peers |
To lead their warriors to the Carron side, |
I left my father's house, and took with me |
A chosen servant to conduct my steps, -1
'Yon trembling coward who forsook his master. I
"Journeying with this intent, | I pass'd these towers,
And, heaven-directed, came this day to do |
The happy deed that gilds my humble name. |

THE GRAVE OF FRANKLIN.

(MISS C. H. WATERMAN.)

No chisell❜d urn is rear'd to thee; |
No sculptur'd scroll enrolls its page |
To tell the children of the free', I
Where rests the patriot, and the sage. |
Far in the city of the dead', |

A corner holds thy sacred clay; |
And pilgrim feet, by reverence led', |
Have worn a path that marks the way. |
There, round thy lone, and simple grave', |
Encroaching on its marble gray', |
Wild plantain weeds, and tall grass wave', ]
And sunbeams pour their shadeless ray. |
Level with earth, thy letter'd stone'
And hidden oft by winter's snow`-
Its modest record tells alone' |

Whose dust it is that sleeps below.* |

That name's enough that honour'd name'
No aid from eu'logy requires : |

'Tis blended with thy country's fame, |

And flashes round her lightning spires,. |

*The body of Franklin lies in Christ-Church burying-ground, corner of Mulberry and Fifth street, Philadelphia. The inscription upon his tomb-stone is as follows:

26*

BENJAMIN
AND
DEBORAH

FRANKLIN

U