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The Blue Poetry Book
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THE PILGRIM
Who would true valour seeLet him come hither!One here will constant be,Come wind, come weather:There’s no discouragementShall make him once relentHis first-avow’d intentTo be a Pilgrim.Whoso beset him roundWith dismal stories,Do but themselves confound:His strength the more is.No lion can him fright;He’ll with a giant fight;But he will have a rightTo be a PilgrimNor enemy, nor fiend,Can daunt his spirit;He knows he at the endShall Life inherit: —Then, fancies, fly away;He’ll not fear what men say;He’ll labour, night and dayTo be a Pilgrim.J. Bunyan.THE SOLITUDE OF ALEXANDER SELKIRK
I am monarch of all I survey,My right there is none to dispute,From the centre all round to the sea,I am lord of the fowl and the brute.O Solitude! where are the charmsThat sages have seen in thy face?Better dwell in the midst of alarms,Than reign in this horrible place.I am out of humanity’s reach,I must finish my journey alone,Never hear the sweet music of speech, —I start at the sound of my own.The beasts that roam over the plainMy form with indifference see;They are so unacquainted with man,Their tameness is shocking to me.Society, Friendship, and Love,Divinely bestow’d upon man,Oh, had I the wings of a doveHow soon would I taste you again!My sorrows I then might assuageIn the ways of religion and truth,Might learn from the wisdom of age,And be cheer’d by the sallies of youth.Ye winds that have made me your sport,Convey to this desolate shoreSome cordial endearing reportOf a land I shall visit no more!My friends, do they now and then sendA wish or a thought after me?Oh, tell me I yet have a friend,Though a friend I am never to see.How fleet is a glance of the mind!Compared with the speed of its flight,The tempest itself lags behind,And the swift-wingèd arrows of light.When I think of my own native land,In a moment I seem to be there;But alas! recollection at handSoon hurries me back to despair.– But the seafowl is gone to her nest,The beast is laid down in his lair,Even here is a season of rest,And I to my cabin repair.There’s mercy in every place,And mercy, encouraging thought!Gives even affliction a grace,And reconciles man to his lot.W. Cowper.THE EVE OF ST. JOHN
The Baron of Smaylho’me rose with day,He spurr’d his courser on,Without stop or stay, down the rocky way,That leads to Brotherstone.He went not with the bold Buccleuch,His banner broad to rear;He went not ’gainst the English yew,To lift the Scottish spear.Yet his plate-jack4 was braced, and his helmet was laced,And his vaunt-brace of proof he wore;At his saddle-gerthe was a good steel sperthe,Full ten pound weight and more.The Baron return’d in three days’ space,And his looks were sad and sour;And weary was his courser’s pace,As he reach’d his rocky tower.He came not from where Ancram MoorRan red with English blood;Where the Douglas true, and the bold Buccleuch,’Gainst keen Lord Evers stood.Yet was his helmet hack’d and hew’d,His acton pierced and tore,His axe and his dagger with blood imbrued, —But it was not English gore.He lighted at the Chapellage,He held him close and still;And he whistled thrice for his little foot-page,His name was English Will.’Come thou hither, my little foot-page;Come hither to my knee;Though thou art young, and tender of age,I think thou art true to me.‘Come, tell me all that thou hast seen,And look thou tell me true!Since I from Smaylho’me tower have been,What did thy lady do?’‘My lady, each night, sought the lonely light,That burns on the wild Watchfold;For, from height to height, the beacons brightOf the English foemen told.‘The bittern clamour’d from the moss,The wind blew loud and shrill;Yet the craggy pathway she did crossTo the eiry Beacon Hill.‘I watched her steps, and silent cameWhere she sat her on a stone;No watchman stood by the dreary flame;It burned all alone.‘The second night I kept her in sight,Till to the fire she came,And, by Mary’s might! an Armed KnightStood by the lonely flame.‘And many a word that warlike lordDid speak to my lady there;But the rain fell fast, and loud blew the blastAnd I heard not what they were.‘The third night there the sky was fair,And the mountain-blast was still,As again I watch’d the secret pair,On the lonesome Beacon Hill.‘And I heard her name the midnight hour,And name this holy eve;And say, "Come this night to thy lady’s bower;Ask no bold Baron’s leave.‘“He lifts his spear with the bold Buccleuch;His lady is all alone;The door she’ll undo, to her knight so true,On the eve of good St. John.”‘“I cannot come; I must not come;I dare not come to thee;On the eve of St. John I must wander alone:In thy bower I may not be.”‘“Now, out on thee, faint-hearted knight!Thou should’st not say me nay;For the eve is sweet, and when lovers meet,Is worth the whole summer’s day.‘“And I’ll chain the blood-hound, and the warder shall not sound,And rushes shall be strew’d on the stair;So, by the black rood-stone, and by holy St. John,I conjure thee, my love, to be there!”‘“Though the blood-hound be mute, and the rush beneath my foot,And the warder his bugle should not blow,Yet there sleepeth a priest in the chamber to the east,And my footstep he would know.”‘“O fear not the priest, who sleepeth to the east!For to Dryburgh the way he has ta’en;And there to say mass, till three days do pass,For the soul of a knight that is slayne.” —‘He turn’d him around, and grimly he frown’d;Then he laugh’d right scornfully —"He who says the mass-rite for the soul of that knightMay as well say mass for me.‘“At the lone midnight hour, when bad spirits have power,In thy chamber will I be.”With that he was gone, and my lady left alone,And no more did I see.’ —Then changed, I trow, was that bold Baron’s brow,From the dark to the blood-red high;‘Now, tell me the mien of the knight thou hast seen,For, by Mary, he shall die!’‘His arms shone full bright, in the beacon’s red light;His plume it was scarlet and blue;On his shield was a hound, in a silver leash bound,And his crest was a branch of the yew.’‘Thou liest, thou liest, thou little foot-page,Loud dost thou lie to me!For that knight is cold, and low laid in the mould,All under the Eildon-tree.’‘Yet hear but my word, my noble lord!For I heard her name his name;And that lady bright, she called the knightSir Richard of Coldinghame.’The bold Baron’s brow then changed, I trow,From high blood-red to pale —‘The grave is deep and dark – and the corpse is stiff and stark —So I may not trust thy tale.‘Where fair Tweed flows round holy Melrose,And Eildon slopes to the plain,Full three nights ago, by some secret foe,That gay gallant was slain.‘The varying light deceived thy sight,And the wild winds drown’d the name;For the Dryburgh bells ring, and the white monks do sing,For Sir Richard of Coldinghame!’He pass’d the court-gate, and he oped the tower-grate,And he mounted the narrow stair,To the bartizan seat, where, with maids that on her wait,He found his lady fair.That lady sat in mournful mood;Look’d over hill and vale;Over Tweed’s fair flood, and Mertoun’s wood,And all down Teviotdale.‘Now hail, now hail, thou lady bright!’‘Now hail, thou Baron true!What news, what news, from Ancram fight?What news from the bold Buccleuch?’‘The Ancram moor is red with gore,For many a southern fell;And Buccleuch has charged us, evermore,To watch our beacons well.’The lady blush’d red, but nothing she said;Nor added the Baron a word:Then she stepp’d down the stair to her chamber fair,And so did her moody lord.In sleep the lady mourn’d, and the Baron toss’d and turn’d,And oft to himself he said —‘The worms around him creep, and his bloody grave deep …It cannot give up the dead!’ —It was near the ringing of matin-bell,The night was well nigh done,When a heavy sleep on that Baron fell,On the eve of good St. John.The lady look’d through the chamber fair,By the light of a dying flame;And she was aware of a knight stood there —Sir Richard of Coldinghame!‘Alas! away, away!’ she cried,For the holy Virgin’s sake!’ —‘Lady, I know who sleeps by thy side;But, lady, he will not awake.‘By Eildon tree, for long nights three,In bloody grave have I lain;The mass and the death-prayer are said for me,But, lady, they are said in vain.‘By the Baron’s brand, near Tweed’s fair strand,Most foully slain, I fell;And my restless sprite on the beacon’s height,For a space is doom’d to dwell.‘At our trysting-place, for a certain space,I must wander to and fro;But I had not had power to come to thy bower,Had’st thou not conjured me so.’ —Love master’d fear – her brow she cross’d;‘How, Richard, hast thou sped?And art thou saved, or art thou lost?’The Vision shook his head!‘Who spilleth life, shall forfeit life;So bid thy lord believe:That lawless love is guilt above,This awful sign receive.’He laid his left palm on an oaken beam;His right upon her hand:The lady shrunk, and fainting sunk,For it scorch’d like a fiery brand.The sable score, of fingers four,Remains on that board impress’d;And for evermore that lady woreA covering on her wrist.There is a nun in Dryburgh bower,Ne’er looks upon the sun:There is a monk in Melrose tower,He speaketh word to none.That nun, who ne’er beholds the day,That monk, who speaks to none —That nun was Smaylho’me’s Lady gay,That monk the bold Baron.Sir W. Scott.LEADER HAUGHS
Sing Erlington and Cowdenknowes where Homes had ance commanding,And Drygrange with the milk-white ewes, ’twixt Tweed and Leader standing.The bird that flees through Reedpath trees, and Gledswood banks ilk morrow,May chant and sing sweet Leader Haughs, and bonny howms of Yarrow.But Minstrel Burn cannot assuage his grief while life endureth,To see the changes of this age that fleeting time procureth,For mony a place stands in hard case, where blyth folk kenned nae sorrow,With Homes that dwelt on Leader braes, and Scott that dwelt on Yarrow.Minstrel Burn.EPITAPH ON A HARE
Here lies, whom hound did ne’er pursue,Nor swifter greyhound follow,Whose foot ne’er tainted morning dew,Nor ear heard huntsman’s halloo;Old Tiney, surliest of his kind,Who, nursed with tender care,And to domestic bounds confined,Was still a wild Jack hare.Though duly from my hand he tookHis pittance every night,He did it with a jealous look,And, when he could, would bite.His diet was of wheaten bread,And milk, and oats, and straw;Thistles, or lettuces instead,With sand to scour his maw.On twigs of hawthorn he regaled,On pippins’ russet peel,And, when his juicy salads failed,Sliced carrot pleased him well.A Turkey carpet was his lawn,Whereon he loved to bound,To skip and gambol like a fawn,And swing his rump around.His frisking was at evening hours,For then he lost his fear,But most before approaching showers,Or when a storm drew near.Eight years and five round rolling moonsHe thus saw steal away,Dozing out all his idle noons,And every night at play.I kept him for his humour’s sake,For he would oft beguileMy heart of thoughts that made it ache,And force me to a smile.But now beneath his walnut shadeHe finds his long last home,And waits, in snug concealment laid,Till gentler Puss shall come.He, still more aged, feels the shocksFrom which no care can save,And, partner once of Tiney’s box,Must soon partake his grave.W. Cowper.BATTLE OF OTTERBOURNE
It fell about the Lammas tide,When the muir-men win their hay,The doughty Earl of Douglas rodeInto England, to catch a prey.He chose the Gordons and the Graemes,With them the Lindesays, light and gay;But the Jardines wald not with him ride,And they rue it to this day.And he has burn’d the dales of Tyne,And part of Bambrough shire:And three good towers on Roxburgh fells,He left them all on fire.And he march’d up to Newcastle,And rode it round about;‘O wha’s the lord of this castle,Or wha’s the lady o’t?’But up spake proud Lord Percy, then,And O but he spake hie!‘I am the lord of this castle,My wife’s the lady gay!’‘If thou’rt the lord of this castle,Sae weel it pleases me!For, ere I cross the border fells,The tane of us sall die.’He took a lang spear in his hand,Shod with the metal free,And for to meet the Douglas there,He rode right furiouslie.But O how pale his lady look’d,Frae aff the castle wa’,When down, before the Scottish spear,She saw proud Percy fa’.‘Had we twa been upon the green,And never an eye to see,I wad hae had you, flesh and fell;But your sword sall gae wi’ mee.’‘But gae ye up to OtterbourneAnd wait there dayis three;And, if I come not ere three dayis end,A fause knight ca’ ye me.’‘The Otterbourne’s a bonnie burn;‘Tis pleasant there to be;But there is nought at Otterbourne,To feed my men and me.‘The deer rins wild on hill and dale,The birds fly wild from tree to tree;But there is neither bread nor kale,To fend5 my men and me.‘Yet I will stay at Otterbourne,Where you sall welcome be;And, if ye come not at three dayis end,A fause lord I’ll ca’ thee.’‘Thither will I come,’ proud Percy said,‘By the might of Our Ladye!’ —‘There will I bide thee,’ said the Douglas,‘My trowth I plight to thee.’They lighted high on Otterbourne,Upon the bent sae brown;They lighted high on Otterbourne,And threw their pallions down.And he that had a bonnie boy,Sent out his horse to grass;And he that had not a bonnie boy,His ain servant he was.But up then spake a little page,Before the peep of dawn —‘O waken ye, waken ye, my good lord,For Percy’s hard at hand.’‘Ye lie, ye lie, ye liar loud!Sae loud I hear ye lie:For Percy had not men yestreen,To dight my men and me.‘But I hae dream’d a dreary dream,Beyond the Isle of Sky;I saw a dead man win a fight,And I think that man was I.’He belted on his good braid sword,And to the field he ran;But he forgot the helmet good,That should have kept his brain.When Percy wi’ the Douglas met,I wat he was fu’ fain!They swakked their swords, till sair they swat,And the blood ran down like rain.But Percy with his good braid sword,That could so sharply wound,Has wounded Douglas on the brow,Till he fell to the ground.Then he call’d on his little foot-page,And said – ‘Run speedilie,And fetch my ain dear sister’s son,Sir Hugh Montgomery.‘My nephew good,’ the Douglas said,‘What recks the death of ane!Last night I dream’d a dreary dream,And I ken the day’s thy ain.‘My wound is deep; I fain would sleep;Take thou the vanguard of the three,And hide me by the braken bush,That grows on yonder lilye lee.‘O bury me by the braken bush,Beneath the blooming briar,Let never living mortal ken,That ere a kindly Scot lies here.’He lifted up that noble lord,Wi’ the saut tear in his e’e;He hid him in the braken bush,That his merrie men might not see.The moon was clear, the day drew near,The spears in flinders flew,But mony a gallant EnglishmanEre day the Scotsmen slew.The Gordons good, in English bloodThey steeped their hose and shoon;The Lindesays flew like fire about,Till all the fray was done.The Percy and Montgomery met,That either of other were fain;They swakked swords, and they twa swat,And aye the blude ran down between.‘Yield thee, O yield thee, Percy!’ he said,‘Or else I vow I’ll lay thee low!’‘Whom to shall I yield,’ said Earl Percy,‘Now that I see it must be so?’‘Thou shalt not yield to lord nor loun,Nor yet shalt thou yield to me;But yield thee to the braken bush,That grows upon yon lilye lee!’‘I will not yield to a braken bush,Nor yet will I yield to a briar;But I would yield to Earl Douglas,Or Sir Hugh the Montgomery, if he were here.’As soon as he knew it was Montgomery,He stuck his sword’s point in the gronde;And the Montgomery was a courteous knight,And quickly took him by the honde.This deed was done at Otterbourne,About the breaking of the day;Earl Douglas was buried at the braken bush,And the Percy led captive away.…Minstrelsy of the Scottish BorderLYCIDAS
ELEGY ON A FRIEND DROWNEDIN THE IRISH CHANNELYet once more, O ye laurels, and once more,Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere,I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude,And with forc’d fingers rudeShatter your leaves before the mellowing year.Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear,Compels me to disturb your season due:For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime,Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer:Who would not sing for Lycidas? he knewHimself to sing, and build the lofty rhime.He must not float upon his watery bierUnwept, and welter to the parching wind,Without the meed of some melodious tear.Begin then, Sisters of the sacred well,That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring,Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string.Hence with denial vain and coy excuse,So may some gentle MuseWith lucky words favour my destin’d urn;And as he passes turnAnd bid fair peace be to my sable shroud.For we were nursed upon the self-same hill,Fed the same flock by fountain, shade, and rill;Together both, ere the high lawns appear’dUnder the opening eyelids of the morn,We drove a field, and both together heardWhat time the gray-fly winds her sultry horn,Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night,Oft till the star, that rose, at evening, bright,Toward heaven’s descent had sloped his west’ring wheelMeanwhile the rural ditties were not mute,Temper’d to the oaten flute,Rough Satyrs danc’d, and Fauns with cloven heelFrom the glad sound would not be absent long,And old Damoetas loved to hear our song.But, O the heavy change, now thou art gone,Now thou art gone, and never must return!Thee, Shepherd, thee the woods, and desert cavesWith wild thyme and the gadding vine o’ergrown,And all their echoes mourn.The willows and the hazel copses green,Shall now no more be seen,Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays.As killing as the canker to the rose,Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze,Or frost to flow’rs, that their gay wardrobe wear,When first the white-thorn blows;Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherds’ ear.Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless deepClos’d o’er the head of your lov’d Lycidas?For neither were ye playing on the steep,Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lie,Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high,Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream:Ay me! I fondly dream!Had ye been there, for what could that have done?What could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore,The Muse herself, for her enchanting son,Whom universal nature did lament,When by the rout that made the hideous roar,His gory visage down the stream was sent,Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore?Alas! what boots it with incessant careTo tend the homely slighted shepherd’s tradeAnd strictly meditate the thankless Muse?Were it not better done as others use,To sport with Amaryllis in the shade,Or with the tangles of Neaera’s hair?Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise(That last infirmity of noble mind)To scorn delights, and live laborious days;But the fair guerdon when we hope to find,And think to burst out into sudden blaze,Comes the blind Fury with th’ abhorrèd shearsAnd slits the thin-spun life. ‘But not the praise,’Phoebus replied, and touch’d my trembling ears;‘Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil,Nor in the glist’ring foilSet off to th’ world, nor in broad rumour lies;But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes,And perfect witness of all-judging Jove;As he pronounces lastly on each deed,Of so much fame in heav’n expect thy meed.’O fountain Arethuse, and thou honour’d flood,Smooth-sliding Mincius, crown’d with vocal reeds,That strain I heard was of a higher mood:But now my oat proceeds,And listens to the herald of the seaThat came in Neptune’s plea;He ask’d the waves, and ask’d the felon winds,What hard mishap hath doom’d this gentle swain?And question’d every gust of rugged wingsThat blows from off each beakèd promontory:They knew not of his story,And sage Hippotadès their answer brings,That not a blast was from his dungeon stray’d,The air was calm, and on the level brineSleek Panopè with all her sisters play’d.It was that fatal and perfidious barkBuilt in th’ eclipse, and rigg’d with curses dark,That sunk so low that sacred head of thine.Next Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow,His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge,Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edgeLike to that sanguine flow’r inscribed with woe.‘Ah! who hath reft,’ quoth he, ‘my dearest pledge!’Last came, and last did go,The pilot of the Galilean lake;Two massy keys he bore of metals twain,(The golden opes, the iron shuts amain);He shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake,‘How well could I have spared for thee, young swain,Enow of such, as for their bellies’ sakeCreep and intrude, and climb into the fold?Of other care they little reckoning makeThan how to scramble at the shearers’ feast,And shove away the worthy bidden guest;Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how to holdA sheep-hook, or have learn’d aught else the leastThat to the faithful herdman’s art belongs!What recks it them? What need they? They are spedAnd when they list, their lean and flashy songsGrate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw;The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed,But swoln with wind and the rank mist they draw,Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread:Besides what the grim wolf with privy pawDaily devours apace, and nothing said;But that two-handed engine at the doorStands ready to smite once, and smite no more.’Return, Alphèus, the dread voice is past,That shrunk thy streams; return, Sicilian Muse,And call the vales, and bid them hither castTheir bells, and flow’rets of a thousand hues.Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers useOf shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks,On whose fresh lap the swart star sparely looks:Throw hither all your quaint enamell’d eyesThat on the green turf suck the honied showersAnd purple all the ground with vernal flowers.Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies,The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine,The white pink, and the pansy freak’d with jet,The glowing violet,The musk-rose, and the well-attir’d woodbine,With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head,And every flower that sad embroidery wears:Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed,And daffadillies fill their cups with tears,To strew the laureate hearse where Lycid lies.For so to interpose a little ease,Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise.Ay me! whilst thee the shores, and sounding seasWash far away, where’er thy bones are hurl’d,Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides,Where thou perhaps under the whelming tide,Visit’st the bottom of the monstrous world;Or whether thou to our moist vows denied,Sleep’st by the fable of Bellerus old,Where the great Vision of the guarded mountLooks towards Namancos and Bayona’s hold;Look homeward Angel now, and melt with ruth:And, O ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth.Weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep no moreFor Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead,Sunk though he be beneath the watery floorSo sinks the day-star in the ocean bed,And yet anon repairs his drooping head,And tricks his beams, and with new spangled oreFlames in the forehead of the morning sky:So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high,Through the dear might of Him that walk’d the waves,Where other groves, and other streams along,With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves,And hears the unexpressive nuptial songIn the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love.There entertain him all the saints above,In solemn troops, and sweet societies,That sing, and singing, in their glory move,And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes.Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more;Henceforth thou art the Genius of the shore,In thy large recompense, and shalt be goodTo all that wander in that perilous flood.Thus sang the uncouth swain to th’ oaks and rills,While the still morn went out with sandals gray,He touch’d the tender stops of various quills,With eager thought warbling his Doric lay;And now the sun had stretch’d out all the hills,And now was dropt into the western bay:At last he rose, and twitch’d his mantle blue;To-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new.J. Milton.ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD
The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,The lowing herd winds slowly o’er the leaThe ploughman homeward plods his weary way,And leaves the world to darkness and to me.Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,And all the air a solemn stillness holds,Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds.Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow’rThe moping owl does to the moon complainOf such as, wand’ring near her secret bow’r,Molest her ancient solitary reign.Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree’s shade,Where heaves the turf in many a mould’ring heap,Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep.The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,The swallow twitt’ring 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,Or busy housewife ply her evening care:No children run to lisp their sire’s return,Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.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 bow’d the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile,The short and simple annals of the Poor.The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow’r,And all that beauty, all that wealth e’er gave,Await alike th’ inevitable hour.The paths of glory lead but to the grave.Forgive, ye Proud, th’ involuntary faultIf Memory to these no trophies raise,Where thro’ the long-drawn aisle and fretted vaultThe pealing anthem swells the note of praise.Can storied urn or animated bustBack to its mansion call the fleeting breath?Can Honour’s voice provoke the silent dust,Or Flatt’ry soothe the dull cold ear of Death!Perhaps in this neglected spot is laidSome heart once pregnant with celestial fire,Hands that the rod of empire might have sway’dOr waked to ecstasy the living lyre.But Knowledge to their eyes her ample pageRich with the spoils 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 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 village-Hampden, that with dauntless breastThe little tyrant of his fields withstood;Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,Some Cromwell guiltless of his country’s blood.Th’ applause of list’ning senates to command,The threats of pain and ruin to despise,To scatter plenty o’er a smiling land,And read their history in a nation’s eyes,Their lot forbad: nor circumscribed aloneTheir growing virtues, but their crimes confinedForbad 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 PrideWith incense, kindled at the Muse’s flame.Far from the madding crowd’s ignoble strife,Their sober wishes never learn’d to stray;Along the cool sequester’d vale of lifeThey kept the noiseless tenour of their way.Yet e’en those bones from insult to protectSome frail memorial still erected nigh,With uncouth rhimes and shapeless sculpture deck’d,Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.Their name, their years, spelt by th’ unletter’d Muse,The place of fame and elegy supply:And many a holy text around she strewsThat teach the rustic moralist to die.For who to dumb forgetfulness a prey,This pleasing anxious being e’er resign’d,Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,Nor cast one longing, ling’ring look behind?On some fond breast the parting soul relies,Some pious drops the closing eye requires;E’en from the tomb the voice of Nature criesE’en in our ashes live their wonted fires.For thee, who, mindful of th’ unhonour’d dead,Dost in these lines their artless 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 dawnBrushing with hasty steps the dews away,To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.‘There at the foot of yonder nodding beechThat wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,His listless length at noon-tide 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, woeful wan, like one forlorn,Or crazed with care, or cross’d 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 arraySlow thro’ the church-way path we saw him borne.Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay,Graved on the stone beneath yon agèd thorn.’The EpitaphHere rests his head upon the lap of EarthA Youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown:Fair Science frown’d not on his humble birth,And Melancholy mark’d him for her own.Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,Heaven did a recompense as largely send:He gave to Misr’y all he had, a tear:He gain’d from Heav’n (’twas all he wish’d) 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.T. Gray.
