| |
| | Alas! regardless of their doom, |
| The little victims play; |
| No sense have they of ills to come, |
| Nor care beyond to-day. |
| 1 |
| | And many a holy text around she strews |
| That teach the rustic moralist to die. |
| 2 |
| | And to hie him home, at evening’s close, |
| To sweet repast, and calm repose. |
| * * * * * |
| From toil he wins his spirits light, |
| From busy day the peaceful night; |
| Rich, from the very want of wealth, |
| In heaven’s best treasures, peace and health. |
| 3 |
| | Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree’s shade, |
| Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, |
| Each in his narrow cell forever laid, |
| The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. |
| The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, |
| The swallow twittering 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. |
| 4 |
| | Bright-eyed fancy, hovering o’er, |
| Scatters from her pictured urn, |
| Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn. |
| 5 |
| | Chill penury repress’d their noble rage, |
| And froze the genial current of the soul. |
| 6 |
| | Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes; |
| Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart. |
| 7 |
| | E’en from the tomb the voice of nature cries, |
| E’en in our ashes live their wonted fires. |
| 8 |
| | Fair laughs the morn, and soft the zephyr blows, |
| While proudly rising o’er the azure realm |
| In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes, |
| Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm. |
| 9 |
| | Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, |
| And waste its sweetness on the desert air. |
| 10 |
| | Full many a gem of purest ray serene |
| The dark unfathom’d caves of ocean bear. |
| 11 |
| | Hard unkindness’ alter’d eye, |
| That mocks the tear it forced to flow. |
| 12 |
| | Here rests his head, upon the lap of earth, |
| A 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; |
| Heav’n did a recompense as largely send: |
| He gave to Mis’ry (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. |
| 13 |
| | Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield: |
| Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke: |
| How jocund did they drive their team a-field! |
| How bow’d the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! |
| 14 |
| | Since sorrow never comes too late, |
| And happiness too swiftly flies. |
| 15 |
| | Some bold adventurers disdain |
| The limits of their little reign, |
| And unknown regions dare descry. |
| 16 |
| | The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, |
| And all that beauty, all that wealth e’er gave, |
| Await alike the inevitable hour, |
| The paths of glory lead but to the grave. |
| 17 |
| | The curfew tolls the knell of parting day; |
| The lowing herd winds slowly o’er the lea; |
| The 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. |
| 18 |
| | The insect-youth are on the wing, |
| Eager to taste the honied spring, |
| And float amid the liquid noon! |
| 19 |
| | Tho’ he inherit |
| Nor the pride, nor ample pinion, |
| That the Theban eagle bear, |
| Sailing with supreme dominion |
| Thro’ the azure deep of air. |
| 20 |
| |
|
|
| |
| | Thou tamer of the human breast, |
| Whose iron scourge and tort’ring hour |
| The bad affright, afflict the best! |
| 21 |
| | To brisk notes in cadence beating |
| Glance their many-twinkling feet. |
| 22 |
| | To contemplation’s sober eye, |
| Such is the race of man; |
| And they that creep, and they that fly, |
| Shall end where they began, |
| Alike the busy and the gay, |
| But flutter through life’s little day. |
| 23 |
| | To each his suff’rings; all are men, |
| Condemn’d alike to groan; |
| The tender for another’s pain, |
| Th’ unfeeling for his own. |
| Yet ah! why should they know their fate. |
| Since sorrow never comes too late, |
| And happiness too swiftly flies? |
| Thought would destroy their paradise. |
| 24 |
| | Visions of glory, spare my aching sight! |
| Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul. |
| 25 |
| | Where ignorance is bliss |
| ’Tis folly to be wise. |
| 26 |
| And weep the more because I weep in vain. | 27 |
| Can honor’s voice provoke the silent dust, or flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of death? | 28 |
| Each in his narrow cell forever laid, the rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. | 29 |
| Fair laughs the morn, and soft the zephyr blows. | 30 |
| Far from the madding crowd’s ignoble strife. | 31 |
| Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, and waste its sweetness on the desert air. | 32 |
| Happy are they who can create a rose tree or erect a honeysuckle. | 33 |
| Her ample page rich with the spoils of time. | 34 |
| If the best man’s faults were written on his forehead, he would draw his hat over his eyes. | 35 |
| Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. | 36 |
| Loose his beard and hoary hair streamed, like a meteor, to the troubled air. | 37 |
| Moody madness laughing wild. | 38 |
| Ope the sacred source of sympathetic tears. | 39 |
| Rich with the spoils of time. | 40 |
| Slow, consuming age. | 41 |
| Sorrow’s faded form, and solitude behind. | 42 |
| The breezy call of incense-breathing morn. | 43 |
| The curfew tolls the knell of parting day. | 44 |
| The path of glory leads but to the grave. | 45 |
| The still small voice of gratitude. | 46 |
| They had finished her own crown in glory, and she couldn’t stay away from the coronation. | 47 |
| Thoughts that breathe and words that burn. | 48 |
| To him the mighty mother did unveil her awful face. | 49 |
| Truth, severe by fairy fiction drest. | 50 |
| While bright-eyed Science watches round. | 51 |
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