ELEGY IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. 285 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 swayed, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre. But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page, Full many a gem, of purest ray serene, The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear; Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air. Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast The applause of listening senates to command, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, And read their history in a nation's eyes, Their lot forbade: nor circumscribed alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined; The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. Yet ev'n these bones, from insult to protect, Some frail memorial still erected nigh, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. Their name, their years, spelt by the unlettered Muse, And many a holy text around she strews, For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, On some fond breast the parting soul relies, Some pious drops the closing 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 the unhonored dead, If 'chance, by lonely contemplation led, 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 ELEGY IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. 287 "Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Muttering his wayward fancies, would he rove; Now drooping, woeful-wan, like one forlorn, Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love. "One morn I missed him on the 'customed 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 Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, He gave to misery (all he had) a tear, He gained from heaven ('twas all he wished) 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. On the Receipt of my Mother's Picture. O H that those lips had language! Life has passed With me but roughly since I heard thee last. The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim To quench it !)—here shines on me still the same, O welcome guest, though unexpected here! I will obey-not willingly alone, But gladly, as the precept were her own; My mother! when I learned that thou wast dead, RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE. 289 Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern, Oft gave me promise of thy quick return ; Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, I learned at last submission to my lot; But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot. Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more- Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, The biscuit or confectionery plum: The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed By thine own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed. All this, and more endearing still than all, Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall- Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere— Not scorned in heaven, though little noticed here, |