Part 68 (1/2)

Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

Hands, that the rod of empire might have swayed, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.

Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

Some mute, inglorious Milton here may rest.

And read their history in a nation's eyes.

Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, And shut the gates of mercy on mankind.

Along the cool, sequestered vale of life They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

Implores the pa.s.sing tribute of a sigh.

And many a holy text around she strews, That teach the rustic moralist to die.

Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind.

E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries, E'en in our ashes, live their wonted fires.

A youth, to fortune and to fame unknown.

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere.

He gave to misery (all he had) a tear.

The bosom of his Father and his G.o.d.