Why call we, then, the square-built monument, I thank thee, Father, RICHARD HENRY DANA. XVII. He reigns above, he reigns alone; XVIII. He reigns below, he reigns alone, He reigns the jealous God. Who mourns XIX. By anguish which inade pale the sun, XX. Take from my head the thorn-wreath brown ! O supreme Love, chief Misery, The sharp regalia are for Thee Whose days eternally go on! XXI. For us, XXII. Whatever 's lost, it first was won : That Heaven's new wine might show more clear. XXIII. I praise thee while my days go on; I love thee while my days go on; Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, 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-buil The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, 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 bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! Let not ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; The short and simple annals of the poor. 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, The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. Through dark and dearth, through fire and frost, Can storied urn, or animated bust, With emptied arms and treasure lost, I thank thee while my days go on. ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY THE curfew tolls the knell of parting day; 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 ; But knowledge to their eyes her ample page, Full many a gem of purest ray serene 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. The applause of listening senates 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 forbade; nor circumscribed alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined; Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. Yet even these bones from insult to protect, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. Their name, their years, spelt by the unlettered 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 resigned, 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. For thee, who, mindful of the unhonored dead, Haply some hoary-headed swain may say :- "There at the foot of yonder nodding beech, "Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Muttering his wayward fancies, he would rove; Now drooping, woful-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 church-way 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 frowned not on his humble birth, And melancholy marked him for her own. Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere ; No further 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. |