Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,

And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

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. The applause of listening senates to command,

The threat 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 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 madding 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 clay,

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 inquire thy fate; Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,

si Oft have we 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 woeful wan, like one forlorn,

Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love. “One morn I missed him on th' accustomed 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 recompence as largely send : He gave to misery all he had, a tear;

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.

GRAY.

THE BARD.

I.

“Ruin seize thee, ruthless king!
Confusion on thy banners wait!
Though fanned by Conquest's crimson wing,
They mock the air with idle state.

Helm, nor hauberk's' twisted mail,
Nor e’en thy virtues, tyrant, shall avail
To save thy secret soul from nightly fears,
From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears !"
Such were the sounds that, o'er the crested pride
Of the first Edward, scattered wild dismay,
As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side
He wound, with toilsome march, his long array.
Stout Glo'ster stood aghast, in speechless trance:
“To arms!” cried Mortimer," and couched his quiver-

ing lance.

On a rock, whose haughty brow
Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood,
Robed in the sable garb of woe,
With haggard eyes the poet stood;
(Loose his beard, and hoary hair
Streamed, like a meteor, to the troubled air)
And with a master's hand, and prophet's fire,
Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre.
"Hark! how each giant oak and desert cave
Sighs to the torrent's awful voice beneath !
O'er thee, oh king ! their hundred arms they wave,
Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe;
Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day,
To high-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llewellyn's lay.

“Cold is Cadwallo's tongue,
That hushed the stormy main :
Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed :
Mountains, ye mourn in vain

Modred, whose magic song
Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-top'd head.
On dreary Arvon's* shore they lie,
Smeared with gore, and ghastly pale:
Far, far aloof th' affrighted ravens sail :
The famished eagle screams, and passes by.
Dear lost companions of my tuneful art,
Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes,
Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart,
Ye died amid your dying country's cries-
No more I weep! They do not sleep !

On yonder cliffs, a grisly band,
I see them sit; they linger yet,

Avengers of their native land:
With me in dreadful harmony they join,
And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line.

II.

“Weave the warp, and weave the woof,

The winding sheet of Edward's 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, through Berkeley's roofs that

ring,
Shrieks of an agonising king ;
She-wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs,
That tear'st the bowels of thy mangled mate,
From thee be born, who o'er thy country hangs
The scourge

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