COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD.

Oft did the harvest to their fickle yield,
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke:
How jocund did they drive their team afield!
How bow'd the woods beneath their flurdy stroke!

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile,
The short and fimple annals of the poor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Wait like th' inevitable hour.
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,
If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raife,
Where thro' the long-drawn airle and fretted vault,
The pealing anthem fwells the note of praise.

Can

COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD.

Oft did the harvest to their fickle yield,
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke:
How jocund did they drive their team afield!
How bow'd the woods beneath their flurdy flroke!

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and deftiny obscure;
Nor grandeur hear with a difdainful smile,
The short and fimple annals of the poor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
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 theſe the fault,
If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raife,
Wherethro'the long-drawn aſſeand fretted vault,
The pealing anthem ſwells the note of praife.

Can

B1992.8.11(55) ba- obj- 3589 -0001

This Image has been Color Corrected:
Disregard any color charts in the Image area

Yale Center for British Art, 2010

152 ELEGY WRITTEN IN A

Can storied urn or animated dust,
Back to its manlion call the fleeting breath?
Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust,
Or flattery foot 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 empire might have fway'd,
Or wak'd to eestafy the living lyre.

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page
Rich with the spoils of Time did ne'er unroll;
Chill Penury reprefs'd their noble 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

152 ELEGY WRITTEN IN A

Can floried urn or animated duft,
Back to its manfion call the fleeting breath?
Can Honour's voice provoke the filent duft,
Or flattery foot 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 empire might have fway'd,
Or wak'd to cœtify the living lyre.

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

Full many a gem of pureft ray ſerene,
The dark unfathom'd caves of Ocean bear:
Full many a flower is born to bluhh unfeen,
And waſte its ſweetneſs on the defert air.

Some

B1992.8.11(55) ba- obj- 3589 -0002