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 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. |

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 flow'er, 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. I

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. I

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife',
('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', |
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', |
That teach the rustic moralist to die. ]

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, lingʼring 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', I
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 he̟. |

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 sendgave to Mis'ry all he had', a tear; |

He

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

DOUGLAS'S ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF.

My name is Norval;

(HOME.)

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 ser vant to conduct my steps.

'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',

Where rests the patriot, and the sage. |
Far in the city of the dead', |
I

A corner holds thy sacred clay; |

And pilgrim feet, by reverence led', I
Have worn a path that marks the way. I
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. I
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 eulogy 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*