COUNTRY CHURCH YARD.

On some fond breast the parting foul relies,
Some pious drops the clofing eye requires;
Ev'n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,
Ev'n in our afhes live their wonted fires.

For thee, who mindful of th' unhonour'd Dead,
Doft in these lines their artlefs 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 hafty steps the dews away,
' To meet the fun upon the upland lawn.
' There at the foot of yonder nodding beech,
' That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,
' His liftlefs length at noon-tide would he stretch,
' And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

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‘Hard

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' Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in corn,
' Mutt'ring his wayward fancies he would rove;
' Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn,
' Or craz'd with care, or crofs'd in hopelefs love.

' One morn I mifs'd him on the cuftom'd hill,
' Along the heath and near his favourite tree;
' Another came; nor yet befide the rill,
' Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he:

' The next with dirges due in fad array
' Slow thro' the church-way path we saw him
' borne,
' Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay
' Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.'

THE