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How foon obedient Flora brought her flore,
And o'er thy breaft a fhower of fragrance flung:
Vertumnus came; his earliest blooms he bore,
And thy rich fides with waving purple hung:

Then to the fight he call'd yon ftately fpire,
He pierc'd th' oppofing oak's luxuriant fhade.
Bad yonder crowding hawthorns low retire,
Nor veil the glories of the golden mead.

Hail, fylvan wonders, hail! and hail the hand
Whose native tale thy native charms difplay'd,
And taught one little acre to command

Each envied happiness of scene and fhade.

Is there a hill whofe diftant azure bounds
The ample range of Scarfdale's proud domain,
A mountain hoar, that yon' wild peak furrounds,
But lends a willing beauty to thy plain?

And, lo! in yonder path, 1 fpy my friend;
He looks the guardian genius of the grove,
Mild as the fabled form that whilom deign'd,
At Milton's call, in Hartfield's haunts to rove.

Blefs'd fpirit, come! tho' pent in mortal mould,
I'll yet invoke thee by that purer name;
O come, a portion of thy biifs unfold,

From folly's maze my wayward fteps reclaim.

* See the defcription of the Genius of the Wood in Milton's Arcades,

For know by lot, from Jove I am the power
Of this fair wood, and live in oaken bower;
To nurfe the faplings tall, and curl the grove
With ringlets quaint, &c.

Too long alas my inexperienc'd youth,

Milled by flatt'ring fortune's fpecious tale, Has left the rural reign of peace and truth,

The huddling brook, and cave, and whifp'ring vale.

Won to the world, a candidate for praise,
Yet, let me boat, by no ignoble art.
Too oft the public ear has heard my lays,
Too much its vain applause has touch'd

my heart:

But now 'ere cuftom binds his powerful chains,
Come from the bafe enchanter fet me free,
While yet my foul its first best taste retains,
Recall that foul to reason, peace, and thee.

Teach me, like thee, to mufe on nature's page,
To mark each wonder in creation's plan,
Each mode of being trace, and humbly fage,.
Deduce from thefe the genuine powers of man.

Of man, while warm'd with reafon's purer ray,
No tool of policy, no dupe to pride;
Before vain fcience led his tafte aftray;

When confcience was his law, and God his guide.

This let me learn, and learning let me live
The leffon o'er. From that great guide of truth
O may my fuppliant foul the boon receive

To tread thro' age the footsteps of thy youth.

Written in 1758.

A N

E LE GY

Written in a COUNTRY CHURCH YARD,

By Mr. GRAY.

T

HE curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd wind flowly o'er the lea, The plowman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landfcape on the fight,
And all the air a folemn ftillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his drony flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the diftant folds;

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r
The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of fuch, as wand'ring near her fecret bow'r,
Moleft her ancient, folitary_reign

X

Beneath thofe rugged elms, that yew-tree's fhade, Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,

The rude Forefathers of the hamlet fleep.

The breezy call of incenfe-breathing Morn,
The fwallow twittering from the straw-built fhed,
The cock's fhrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
No more fhall rouze them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or bufy housewife ply her evening care:
No children run to lifp their fire's return,
Or climb his knees the envied kifs to fhare.

Oft did the harvest to their fickle yield,
Their furrow oft the ftubborn glebe has broke;
How jocund did they drive their teem afield!
How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy ftroke!

Let not Ambition mock their ufeful toil,
Their homely joys, and deftiny obfcure;
Nor Grandeur hear, with a difdainful fmile,
The fhort and fimple annals of the poor.

The boaft of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Await alike th' inevitable hour.

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Nor you, ye Proud, impute to Thefe the fault,
If Mem'ry o'er their Tomb no Trophies raife,
Where through the long-drawn ifle and fretted vault
The pealing anthem fwells the note of praise.

Can ftoried urn or animated bust

Back to its manfion call the fleeting breath?
Can honour's voice provoke the filent duft,
Or Flatt'ry footh the dull cold ear of Death?

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid
Some heart once pregnant with celeftial fire;
Hands, that the rod of empire might have fway'd,
Or wak'd to extafy the living lyre.

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page
Rich with the fpoils of Time did ne'er unroll;
Chill Penury reprefs'd their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the foul.

Full many a gem of pureft ray ferene,
The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear;
Full many a flower is born to blush unfeen,
And wafte its fweetnefs on the defart air.

Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breaft
The little Tyrant of his fields with flood;
Some mute inglorious Milton here may reft,
Some Cromwell guiltlefs of his country's blood.

Th' applaufe of lift'ning fenates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to defpife.
To fcatter plenty o'er a fmiling land,
And read their hift'ry in a nation's eyes,

Their lot forbad: nor circumfcrib'd alone
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd:
Forbad to wade through flaughter to a throne,
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind.

The ftruggling pangs of confcious truth to hide,
To quench the blushes of ingenuous fhame,
Or heap the fhrine of Luxury and Pride
With incenfe kindled at the Mufe's flame.

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble ftrife
Their fober wishes never learn'd to fray ;
Along the cool fequefter'd vale of life
They kept the noiselefs tenor of their way.

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