The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,
heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride
With incense kindled at the Muses flame.
Far from the madding crowds ignoble strife
Their sober wishes never learnd to stray;
the cool sequesterd vale of life
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.
Yet evn these bones from insult to protect
Some frail memorial still erected nigh,
rhymes and shapeless sculpture deckd,
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
Their name, their years, spelt by th unletterd muse,
The place of fame and elegy supply:
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 eer resignd,
warm precincts of the cheerful day,
Nor cast one longing lingring look behind?
On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
Some pious drops the closing eye requires;
from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,
Een in our Ashes live their wonted Fires.
For thee, who, mindful of th unhonourd dead,
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;
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
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,
listless length at noontide would he stretch,
And pore upon the brook that babbles by.
Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,
Muttring his wayward fancies he would rove,
drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn,
Or crazed with care, or crossd in hopeless love.
One morn I missd him on the customd hill,
Along the heath and near his favrite tree;
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.
and read (for thou canst read) the lay
Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.
Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth
A Youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown.
Science frownd not on his humble birth,
And Melancholy markd him for her own.
Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,
Heavn did a recompense as largely send:
gave to Misry all he had, a tear,
He gaind from Heavn (twas all he wishd) a friend.
No farther seek his merits to disclose,
Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,
they alike in trembling hope repose,)
The bosom of his Father and his God.
WEAVE the warp, and weave the woof,
The winding-sheet of Edwards race.
Give ample room,
and verge enough
The characters of hell to trace.
Mark the year, and mark the night,
When Severn shall
re-echo with affright
The shrieks of death, thro Berkleys roofs that ring,
Shrieks of an agonizing King!
wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs,
That tearst the bowels of thy mangled mate,
From thee be born,
who oer thy country hangs
The scourge of Heavn. What terrors round him wait!
Amazement in his van,
with Flight combined,
And Sorrows faded form, and Solitude behind.
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