| |
| 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, | 5 |
| 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 power, | |
| And all that beauty, all that wealth, e’er gave | 10 |
| Await alike th’ inevitable hour:— | |
| The paths of glory lead but to the grave.… | |
| |
| Can storied urn, or animated bust, | |
| Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? | |
| Can honor’s voice provoke the silent dust, | 15 |
| Or flattery 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 swayed, | |
| Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre; | 20 |
| |
| But knowledge to their eyes her ample page, | |
| Rich with the spoils of time, did ne’er unroll; | |
| Chill penury repressed their noble rage, | |
| And froze the genial current of the soul. | |
| |
| Full many a gem of purest ray serene | 25 |
| The dark unfathomed 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 breast, | |
| The little tyrant of his fields withstood, | 30 |
| Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, | |
| Some Cromwell guiltless of his country’s blood. | |
| |
| The applause of listening senates to command, | |
| The threats of pain and ruin to despise, | |
| To scatter plenty o’er a smiling land, | 35 |
| 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; | 40 |
| |
| 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, | 45 |
| Their sober wishes never learned to stray; | |
| Along the cool sequestered vale of life | |
| They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. | |
| |
