Their lot forbade: nor circumscribed alone

Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined; Forbade 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 maddening crowd's ignoble strife,
Their sober wishes never learnt to stray;
Along the cool sequestered vale of life,

They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

Yet even these bones from insult to protect,
Some frail memorial still erected nigh,
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculptures deckt,
Implores the passing 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, lingering look behind?

On some fond breast the parting soul relies,

Some pious drops the closing eye requires ; Even from the tomb the voice of nature cries, Even in our ashes live their wonted fires.

For thee, who mindful of th' unhonoured dead,
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;
If chance by lonely contemplation led,

Some kindred spirit shall enquire thy fate:

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,

"Oft we have seen him at the peep of dawn, Brushing 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 noontide 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 woful wan, like one forlorn,

Or craz'd 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 through 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 frowned not on his humble birth, And melancholy marked him for her own.

Large was his bounty and his soul sincere,

Heaven did a recompense as largely send; He gave to misery, all he had, a tear;

He gain'd from heaven, 'twas all he wish'd a friend.

No farther seek his merits to disclose,

Nor draw his frailties from their dread abode, There they alike in trembling hope repose,

The bosom of his father and his God.

ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON COLLEGE

Ye distant spires, ye antique towers,
That crown the watery glade,
Where grateful science still adores
Her Henry's holy shade;
And ye that from the stately brow
Of Windsor's heights the expanse below

Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey, Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among, Wanders the hoary Thames along His silver-winding way;

Ah, happy hills, ah pleasing shade,
Ah, fields beloved in vain,

Where once my careless childhood strayed,
A stranger yet to pain!

I feel the gales that from ye blow

A momentary bliss bestow,

As waving fresh their gladsome wing, My weary soul they seem to soothe, And redolent of joy and youth,

To breathe a second spring.

Say, father Thames, for thou hast seen
Full many a sprightly race,
Disporting on thy margent green,
The paths of pleasure trace,
Who foremost now delight to cleave,
With pliant arm thy glassy wave?

The captive linnet which enthral ?
What idle progeny succeed
To chase the rolling circle's speed,
Or urge the flying ball?

While some on earnest business bent,
Their murmuring labours ply,
'Gainst graver hours, that bring constraint
To sweeten liberty;

Some bold adventurers disdain
The limits of their little reign,

And unknown regions dare descry;
Still as they run they look behind,
They hear a voice in every wind,

And snatch a fearful joy.

Gay hope is their's by fancy fed,
Less pleasing when possest;
The tear forgot as soon as shed,
The sunshine of the breast:
Their's buxom health, of rosy
Wild wit, invention ever new;

hue;

And lively cheer, of vigour born; The thoughtless day, the easy night, The spirits pure, the slumbers light, That fly the approach of morn.