Part 43 (2/2)
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 Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll; Chill Penury repress'd their n.o.ble rage, 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 The little tyrant of his fields withstood; Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood.
Th' 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 forbad: nor circ.u.mscribed alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined Forbad 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.
Far from the madding crowd's ign.o.ble strife, Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray; Along the cool sequester'd vale of life They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.
Yet e'en those bones from insult to protect Some frail memorial still erected nigh, With uncouth rhimes and shapeless sculpture deck'd, Implores the pa.s.sing tribute of a sigh.
Their name, their years, spelt by th' 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, ling'ring 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 th' 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 h.o.a.ry-headed swain may say, ”Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn Brus.h.i.+ng with hasty steps the dews away, To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.
”There at the foot of yonder nodding beech That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, His listless length at noon-tide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by.
”Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove; Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn, Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love.
”One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill, Along the heath, and near his favourite 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 thro' 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 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 recompense as largely send: He gave to Mis'ry all he had, a tear: He gain'd from Heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) a 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 G.o.d.
THOMAS GRAY.
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