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E'en all at once together found—
DIRGE IN CYMBELINE,
SUNG BY GUIDERUS AND ARVIRAGUS OVER FIDELE, SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD.
TO fair Fidele's grassy tomb
Soft maids and village hinds shall bring Each opening sweet of earliest bloom, And rifle all the breathing Spring.
No wailing ghost shall dare appear,
To vex with shrieks this quiet grove; But shepherd lads assemble here,
And melting virgins own their love.
No withered witch shall here be seen-
And dress thy grave with pearly dew.
The redbreast oft, at evening hours,
When howling winds and beating rain
Each lonely scene shall thee restore,
For thee the tear be duly shed; Beloved till life can charm no more, And mourned till Pity's self be dead.
"HOW SLEEP THE BRAVE."
OW sleep the brave, who sink to rest By all their country's wishes blessed! When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, Returns to deck their hallowed mould, She there shall dress a sweeter sod Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.
By fairy hands their knell is rung;
ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD
HE curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herds wind slowly o'er the lea, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
Now faces the glimmering landscape on the sight,
Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower,
The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such as, wand'ring 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 mould'ring heap, Each in his narrow cell forever laid,
The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,
The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed!
For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
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 The short and simple annals of the poor.
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of
The paths of glory lead-but to the grave!
Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,
If memory o'er their tombs 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 empire might have sway'd, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre!
But knowledge to their eyes her ample page,
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 unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air.
Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless breast,
Th' applause of list'ning senates to command,
And read their history in a nation's eyes,
Their lot forbade : nor circumscribed alone
Their growing virtues, but their crimes 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,
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,
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd,