I see how plenty surfeits oft, Mishap doth threaten most of all; No princely pomp, nor wealthy store, No wily wit to salve a sore, No shape to win a lover's eye; Some have too much, yet still they crave; I laugh not at another's loss, I grudge not at another's gain; My wealth is health and perfect ease; Nor by desert to give offence; I take no joy in earthly bliss; I weigh not Croesus' wealth a straw; For care, I care not what it is; I fear not Fortune's fatal law. I wish but what I have at will; I wander not to seek for more; I kiss not where I wish to kill; I feign not love where most I hate ; I The court, ne cart, I like ne loathe; AN ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. Gray. THE Curfew tolls the knell of parting day, Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, Save where the beetle wheels his drony flight, Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower, Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever 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 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 teams afield! How bowed 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 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. Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, Can storied urn, or animated bust, Back to their mansion call the fleeting breath? Can honor's voice provoke the silent dust, 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. But knowledge to their eyes her ample page, Full many a gem of purest ray serene, Some village Hampden,* that with dauntless breast * An English patriot, who resisted King Charles the First's usurpation of power. The applause of listening senates to command, Their lot forbade; nor circumscribed alone The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, With incense kindled at the Muses' flame. Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked, Their name, their years, spelt by the 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, |