“The Lye,” by Sir Walter Raleigh (1552-1618), is one of the strongest and most appealing poems a teacher can read to her pupils when teaching early American history. The poem is full of magnificent lines, such as “Go, soul, the body’s guest.” The poem never lacks an attentive audience of young people when correlated with the study of North Carolina and Sir Walter Raleigh. The solitary, majestic character of Sir Walter Raleigh, his intrepidity while undergoing tortures inflicted by a cowardly king, the ring of indignation—- all these make a weapon for him stronger than the ax that beheaded him. In this poem he “has the last word.”
Goe, soule, the bodie’s guest, Upon a thanklesse arrant; Feare not to touche the best— The truth shall be thy warrant! Goe, since I needs must dye, And give the world the lye.
Goe tell the court it glowes And shines like rotten wood; Goe tell the church it showes What’s good, and doth no good; If church and court reply, Then give them both the lye.
Tell potentates they live Acting by others’ actions— Not loved unlesse they give, Not strong but by their factions; If potentates reply, Give potentates the lye.
Tell men of high condition, That rule affairs of state, Their purpose is ambition, Their practice only hate; And if they once reply, Then give them all the lye.
Tell zeale it lacks devotion; Tell love it is but lust; Tell time it is but motion; Tell flesh it is but dust; And wish them not reply, For thou must give the lye.
Tell wit how much it wrangles In tickle points of nicenesse; Tell wisdome she entangles Herselfe in over-wisenesse; And if they do reply, Straight give them both the lye.
Tell physicke of her boldnesse; Tell skill it is pretension; Tell charity of coldnesse; Tell law it is contention; And as they yield reply, So give them still the lye.
Tell fortune of her blindnesse; Tell nature of decay; Tell friendship of unkindnesse; Tell justice of delay; And if they dare reply, Then give them all the lye.
Tell arts they have no soundnesse, But vary by esteeming; Tell schooles they want profoundnesse, And stand too much on seeming; If arts and schooles reply, Give arts and schooles the lye.
So, when thou hast, as I Commanded thee, done blabbing— Although to give the lye Deserves no less than stabbing— Yet stab at thee who will, No stab the soule can kill. |
Sir Walter Raleigh.
“L’Envoi,” by Rudyard Kipling, is a favourite on account of its sweeping assertion of the individual’s right to self-development.
When Earth’s last picture is painted, and the tubes are twisted and dried, When the oldest colours have faded, and the youngest critic has died, We shall rest, and, faith, we shall need it—lie down for an æon or two, Till the Master of All Good Workmen shall set us to work anew!
And those who were good shall be happy: they shall sit in a golden chair; They shall splash at a ten-league canvas with brushes of comet’s hair; They shall find real saints to draw from—Magdalene, Peter, and Paul; They shall work for an age at a sitting and never be tired at all!
And only the Master shall praise us, and only the Master shall blame; And no one shall work for money, and no one shall work for fame; But each for the joy of the working, and each, in his separate star, Shall draw the Thing as he sees It for the God of Things as They Are! |
Rudyard Kipling
“Contentment,” by Edward Dyer (1545-1607). This poem holds much to comfort and control people who are shut up to the joys of meditation—people to whom the world of activity is closed. To be independent of things material—this is the soul’s pleasure.
My mind to me a kingdom is; Such perfect joy therein I find As far excels all earthly bliss That God or Nature hath assigned; Though much I want that most would have, Yet still my mind forbids to crave.
Content I live; this is my stay,— I seek no more than may suffice. I press to bear no haughty sway; Look, what I lack my mind supplies. Lo, thus I triumph like a king, Content with that my mind doth bring.
I laugh not at another’s loss, I grudge not at another’s gain; No worldly wave my mind can toss; I brook that is another’s bane. I fear no foe, nor fawn on friend; I loathe not life, nor dread mine end.
My wealth is health and perfect ease; My conscience clear my chief defense; I never seek by bribes to please Nor by desert to give offense. Thus do I live, thus will I die; Would all did so as well as I! |
Edward Dyer.
The harp that once through Tara’s halls The soul of music shed, Now hangs as mute on Tara’s walls As if that soul were fled. So sleeps the pride of former days, So glory’s thrill is o’er, And hearts, that once beat high for praise, Now feel that pulse no more.
No more to chiefs and ladies bright The harp of Tara swells; The chord alone, that breaks at night, Its tale of ruin tells. Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes, The only throb she gives Is when some heart indignant breaks, To show that still she lives. |
Thomas Moore.
“The Old Oaken Bucket,” by Samuel Woodworth (1785-1848), is a poem we love because it is an elegant expression of something very dear and homely.
How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood, When fond recollection presents them to view! The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wild-wood, And every loved spot which my infancy knew! The wide-spreading pond, and the mill that stood by it, The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell, The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it, And e’en the rude bucket that hung in the well— The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well.
That moss-covered vessel I hailed as a treasure, For often at noon, when returned from the field, I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure, The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing, And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell; Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing, And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well— The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket arose from the well.
How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it As poised on the curb it inclined to my lips! Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it, The brightest that beauty or revelry sips. And now, far removed from the loved habitation, The tear of regret will intrusively swell. As fancy reverts to my father’s plantation, And sighs for the bucket that hangs in the well— The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket that hangs in the well! |
Samuel Woodworth.
“The Raven,” by Edgar Allan Poe (1809-49), is placed here because so many college men speak of it at once as the great poem of their boyhood. The poem caught me when a child by its refrain and weird picturesqueness. It has never outgrown its mechanical charm.
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore— While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door“ ’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door— Only this, and nothing more.”
Ah! distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor; Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore— For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore— Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating, “’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door— Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door: This it is, and nothing more.”
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, “Sir,” said I, “or madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is, I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you.” Here I opened wide the door: Darkness there, and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before; But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore!” This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!” Merely this, and nothing more.
Back into my chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a rapping, something louder than before: “Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice; Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore— Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore. ’Tis the wind, and nothing more.”
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately Raven, of the saintly days of yore; Not the least obeisance made he, not a minute stopped or stayed he; But with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door— Perched above a bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door— Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore; “Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure, no craven; Ghastly, grim, and ancient Raven, wandering from the nightly shore, Tell me what thy lordly name is on the night’s Plutonian shore?” Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer, little meaning, little relevancy bore; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door— Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door With such a name as “Nevermore.”
But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour; Nothing further then he uttered, not a feather then he fluttered, Till I scarcely more than muttered—“Other friends have flown before, On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.” Then the bird said, “Nevermore.”
Startled by the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, “Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store, Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmerciful disaster Followed fast and followed faster, till his songs one burden bore— Till the dirges of his hope this melancholy burden bore— Of 'Never, nevermore,’”
But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust, and door; Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy into fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore— What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”
Thus I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core; This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining On the cushion’s velvet lining, that the lamp-light gloated o’er, But whose velvet violet lining, with the lamp-light gloating o’er, She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by seraphim, whose footfalls twinkled on the tufted floor. “Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels He hath sent thee Respite—respite and nepenthe from my memories of Lenore! Quaff, oh, quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!” Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”
“Prophet,” said I, “thing of evil—prophet still, if bird or devil! Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted, On this home by horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore, Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me, tell me, I implore!” Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”
“Prophet,” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still if bird or devil! By that heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore— Tell this soul, with sorrow laden, if, within the distant Aiden It shall clasp a sainted maiden, whom the angels name Lenore! Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels name Lenore?” Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”
“Be that our sign of parting, bird or fiend,” I shrieked, upstarting— “Get thee back into the tempest and the night’s Plutonian shore; Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken, Leave my loneliness unbroken—quit the bust above my door, Take thy beak from out my heart and take thy form from off my door!” Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore.”
And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting, On the pallid bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming, And the lamp-light o’er him streaming, throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow, that lies floating on the floor, Shall be lifted—nevermore! |
Edgar Allan Poe.
“Make way for liberty!” he cried, Make way for liberty, and died. In arms the Austrian phalanx stood, A living wall, a human wood,— A wall, where every conscious stone Seemed to its kindred thousands grown. A rampart all assaults to bear, Till time to dust their frames should wear; So still, so dense the Austrians stood, A living wall, a human wood.
Impregnable their front appears, All horrent with projected spears. Whose polished points before them shine, From flank to flank, one brilliant line, Bright as the breakers’ splendours run Along the billows to the sun.
Opposed to these a hovering band Contended for their fatherland; Peasants, whose new-found strength had broke From manly necks the ignoble yoke, And beat their fetters into swords, On equal terms to fight their lords; And what insurgent rage had gained, In many a mortal fray maintained; Marshalled, once more, at Freedom’s call, They came to conquer or to fall, Where he who conquered, he who fell, Was deemed a dead or living Tell, Such virtue had that patriot breathed, So to the soil his soul bequeathed, That wheresoe’er his arrows flew, Heroes in his own likeness grew, And warriors sprang from every sod, Which his awakening footstep trod.
And now the work of life and death Hung on the passing of a breath; The fire of conflict burned within, The battle trembled to begin; Yet, while the Austrians held their ground, Point for attack was nowhere found; Where’er the impatient Switzers gazed, The unbroken line of lances blazed; That line ’twere suicide to meet, And perish at their tyrant’s feet; How could they rest within their graves, And leave their homes, the homes of slaves! Would not they feel their children tread, With clanging chains, above their head?
It must not be; this day, this hour, Annihilates the invader’s power; All Switzerland is in the field; She will not fly,—she cannot yield,— She must not fall; her better fate Here gives her an immortal date. Few were the numbers she could boast, But every freeman was a host, And felt as ’twere a secret known That one should turn the scale alone, While each unto himself was he On whose sole arm hung victory.
It did depend on one indeed; Behold him,—Arnold Winkelried; There sounds not to the trump of fame The echo of a nobler name. Unmarked he stood amid the throng, In rumination deep and long, Till you might see, with sudden grace, The very thought come o’er his face; And, by the motion of his form, Anticipate the bursting storm, And, by the uplifting of his brow, Tell where the bolt would strike, and how.
But ’twas no sooner thought than done! The field was in a moment won; “Make way for liberty!” he cried, Then ran, with arms extended wide, As if his dearest friend to clasp; Ten spears he swept within his grasp. “Make way for liberty!” he cried. Their keen points crossed from side to side; He bowed amidst them like a tree, And thus made way for liberty.
Swift to the breach his comrades fly, “Make way for liberty!” they cry, And through the Austrian phalanx dart, As rushed the spears through Arnold’s heart. While instantaneous as his fall, Rout, ruin, panic, seized them all; An earthquake could not overthrow A city with a surer blow.
Thus Switzerland again was free; Thus Death made way for Liberty! |
James Montgomery.
Life! I know not what thou art. But know that thou and I must part; And when, or how, or where we met, I own to me’s a secret yet. Life! we’ve been long together Through pleasant and through cloudy weather; Tis hard to part when friends are dear— Perhaps ’twill cost a sigh, a tear; —Then steal away, give little warning, Choose thine own time; Say not Good Night,—but in some brighter clime Bid me Good Morning. |
A.L. Barbauld.
“Mercy,” an excerpt from “The Merchant of Venice,” “Polonius’ Advice,” from “Hamlet,” and “Antony’s Speech,” from “Julius Cæsar” (all fragments from Shakespeare, 1564-1616), find a place in this book because a well-known New York teacher—one who is unremitting in his efforts to raise the good taste and character of his pupils—says: “A book of poetry could not be complete without these extracts.”
The quality of mercy is not strain’d; It droppeth as the gentle rain from Heaven Upon the place beneath: it is twice bless’d; It blesseth him that gives, and him that takes: ’Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes The throned monarch better than his crown: His scepter shows the force of temporal power, The attribute to awe and majesty, Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings; But mercy is above his sceptered sway; It is enthroned in the hearts of kings, It is an attribute to God himself; And earthly power doth then show likest God’s When mercy seasons justice. |
Shakespeare (“Merchant of Venice”).
See thou character. Give thy thoughts no tongue, Nor any unproportion’d thought his act. Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar: The friends thou hast, and their adoption tried, Grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel; But do not dull thy palm with entertainment Of each new-hatch’d, unfledg’d comrade. Beware Of entrance to a quarrel; but, being in, Bear ’t that th’ opposed may beware of thee. Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice: Take each man’s censure, but reserve thy judgment. Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy But not expressed in fancy; rich, not gaudy: For the apparel oft proclaims the man. Neither a borrower nor a lender be; For loan oft loses both itself and friend, And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry. This above all: to thine own self be true; And it must follow, as the night the day, Thou canst not then be false to any man. |
Shakespeare (“Hamlet”).
This was the noblest Roman of them all: All the conspirators, save only he, Did that they did in envy of great Cæsar; He only, in a general honest thought And common good to all, made one of them. His life was gentle; and the elements So mix’d in him, that Nature might stand up, And say to all the world, “This was a man!” |
Shakespeare (“Julius Cæsar”).
Bird of the wilderness, Blithesome and cumberless, Sweet be thy matin o’er moorland and lea! Emblem of happiness, Blest is thy dwelling-place— Oh, to abide in the desert with thee!
Wild is thy lay and loud, Far in the downy cloud, Love gives it energy, love gave it birth. Where, on thy dewy wing, Where art thou journeying? Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth.
O’er fell and fountain sheen, O’er moor and mountain green, O’er the red streamer that heralds the day, Over the cloudlet dim, Over the rainbow’s rim, Musical cherub, soar, singing, away!
Then, when the gloaming comes, Low in the heather blooms Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be! Emblem of happiness, Blest is thy dwelling-place— Oh, to abide in the desert with thee! |
Thomas Hogg.
“The Choir Invisible” (by George Eliot, 1819-80) is a fitting exposition in poetry of this “Shakespeare of prose.”
O, may I join the choir invisible Of those immortal dead who live again In minds made better by their presence; live In pulses stirred to generosity, In deeds of daring rectitude, in scorn Of miserable aims that end with self, In thoughts sublime that pierce the night like stars, And with their mild persistence urge men’s minds To vaster issues. May I reach That purest heaven,—be to other souls The cup of strength in some great agony, Enkindle generous ardour, feed pure love, Beget the smiles that have no cruelty, Be the sweet presence of good diffused, And in diffusion ever more intense! So shall I join the choir invisible, Whose music is the gladness of the world. |
George Eliot.
“The World Is Too Much With Us,” by Wordsworth (1770-1850), is perhaps the greatest sonnet ever written. It is true that “the eyes of the soul” are blinded by a surfeit of worldly “goods.” “I went to the Lake District” (England), said John Burroughs, “to see what kind of a country could produce a Wordsworth.” Of course he found simple houses, simple people, barren moors, heather-clad mountains, wild flowers, calm lakes, plain, rugged simplicity.
The world is too much with us; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers; Little we see in Nature that is ours. We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! This sea, that bares her bosom to the moon, The winds that will be howling at all hours, And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers— For this, for everything, we are out of tune; It moves us not. Great God! I’d rather be A pagan, suckled in a creed outworn, So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; Have sight of Proteus, rising from the sea, Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. |
William Wordsworth.
“Sonnet on His Blindness” (by John Milton, 1608-74). This is the most stately and pathetic sonnet in existence. The soul enduring enforced idleness and loss of power without repining. Inactivity made to serve a higher end.
“All service ranks the same with God!
There is no first or last.”
When I consider how my light is spent Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide, And that one talent which is death to hide, Lodg’d with me useless, though my soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present My true account, lest He, returning, chide; Doth God exact day-labour, light denied? I fondly ask: but Patience, to prevent That murmur, soon replies, God doth not need Either man’s work, or His own gifts; who best Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best; His state Is kingly; thousands at His bidding speed, And post o’er land and ocean without rest; They also serve who only stand and wait. |
John Milton.
“She Was a Phantom of Delight” (by William Wordsworth, 1770-1850) is included here because it is a picture of woman as she should be, not made dainty by finery, but by fine ideals—
“And not too good
For human nature’s daily food.”
She was a Phantom of delight When first she gleamed upon my sight; A lovely Apparition, sent To be a moment’s ornament; Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair; Like Twilight’s, too, her dusky hair: But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful Dawn. A dancing Shape, an Image gay, To haunt, to startle, and waylay.
I saw her upon nearer view, A Spirit, yet a Woman too! Her household motions light and free, And steps of virgin liberty; A countenance in which did meet Sweet records, promises as sweet; A Creature not too bright or good For human nature’s daily food; For transient sorrows, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.
And now I see with eye serene The very pulse of the machine; A Being breathing thoughtful breath, A Traveller between life and death: The reason firm, the temperate will, Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill; A perfect Woman, nobly planned, To warn, to comfort, and command; And yet a Spirit still, and bright, With something of angelic light. |
William Wordsworth.
“Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard” (Gray, 1716-71). I once drove from Windsor Castle through Eton, down the long hedge-bound road which passes the estate of William Penn’s descendants to Stoke Pogis, the little churchyard where this poem was written. They were trimming a great yew-tree under which Gray was said to have written this poem. The scene is one of peace and quiet. The “elegy” was a favourite form of poem with the ancients, but Gray is said to have reached the climax among poets in this style of verse. The great line of the poem is:
“The path of glory leads but to the grave.”
It would almost seem that poetry has for its greatest mission the lesson of a proper humility.
The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd winds slowly o’er the lea, The plowman 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’r The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such as, wandering 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 forever 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 fault If Memory to these no trophies raise, Where thro’ 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, 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 breast The little tyrant of his fields withstood; Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, Some Cromwell guiltless of his country’s blood.
Th’ applause of listening 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 alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined Forbad 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 learn’d to stray; Along the cool sequester’d vale of life They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.
Yet e’en those bones from insult to protect Some 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’ 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 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 cries, E’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 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 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 crossed 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 array
Slow 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 EPITAPH.
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, Heaven 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. |
Thomas Gray.