Many centuries have been numbered, Mingling with the common dust: But the good deed, through the ages Brighter grows and gleams immortal, THE curfew tolls the knell of parting day, Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower, Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy-call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield; Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke: How jocund did they drive their team afield! How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! Let not ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, Can storied urn, or animated bust, Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can honour's voice provoke the silent dust, Or flattery soothe 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 swayed, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre. But knowledge to their eyes her ample page, And froze the genial current of the soul. Full many a gem of purest ray serene Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast The applause of listening senates to command,. And read their history in a nation's eyes, Their lot forbad; nor circumscribed alone The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, With incense kindled at the Muses' flame. Far from the madding crowds ignoble strife, They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. Yet even these bones from insult to protect With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. Their name, their years, spelt by the unlettered Muse, And many a holy text around she strews, For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, For thee, who, mindful of the unhonoured dead, Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, "There at the foot of yonder nodding beech "Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love. One morn I missed him on the 'customed 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 through the church-way path we saw him borne. Approach and read (for thou can'st read) the lay THE EPITAPH. HERE rests his head upon the lap of earth, Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere ; He gained from heaven ('twas all he wished) 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 God. THE DYING CHRISTIAN SOUL. ALEXANDER POPE. ΤΟ HIS VITAL spark of heavenly flame, F |