He that hath found some fledged bird's nest may know, At first sight, if the bird be flown; But what fair well or grove he sings in now, 24 And yet as Angels in some brighter dreams And into glory peep. If a star were confined into a tomb, Her captive flames must needs burn there; But when the hand that lock'd her up gives room, 28 She'll shine through all the sphere. 32 O Father of eternal life, and all Created glories under Thee! Resume Thy spirit from this world of thrall Either disperse these mists, which blot and fill My perspective still as they pass: Or else remove me hence unto that hill, 1655. Where I shall need no glass. 36 40 Henry Vaughan. ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD THE Curfew tolls the knell of parting day, 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; 8 Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r The moping owl does to the moon complain Of 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, 12 The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 16 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. 20 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. 24 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, 28 32 The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r, 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 raise, 36 Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. Can storied urn or animated bust Back 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 laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre. But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll; Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage, 40 44 48 And froze the genial current of the soul. 52 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. 56 Some village Hampden that with dauntless breast The little tyrant of his fields withstood; Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood. 60 Th' applause of list'ning senates to command, And read their history in a nation's eyes,---64 Their lot forbade : nor circumscribed alone confined; Forbade to wade thro' slaughter to a throne, And shut the gates of mercy on mankind. 68 The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. 72 Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray; Along the cool, sequester'd vale of life They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. 76 Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect 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 strews, That teach the rustic moralist to die. 80 84 |