y in a Country Churchyard_.

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

* * * * *

The short and simple annals of the poor.

* * * * *

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

* * * * *

Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

* * * * *

Hands, that the rod of empire might have swayed,
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.

* * * * *

Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

* * * * *

Some mute, inglorious Milton here may rest.

And read their history in a nation's eyes.

* * * * *

Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind.

* * * * *

Along the cool, sequestered vale of life
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

* * * * *

Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

* * * * *

And many a holy text around she strews,
That teach the rustic moralist to die.

* * * * *

Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind.

* * * * *

E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries,
E'en in our ashes, live their wonted fires.

* * * * *

A youth, to fortune and to fame unknown.

* * * * *

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere.

* * * * *

He gave to misery (all he had) a tear.

* * * * *

The bosom of his Father and his God.

_Ode on the Pleasure arising from Vicissitude_.

The meanest floweret of the vale,
The simplest note that swells the gale,
The common sun, the air, the skies,
To him are opening paradise.

* * * * *

WILLIAM COLLINS.
1720-1756.

_Ode in 1746_.

How sleep the brave, who sink to rest,
By all their country's wishes blessed!

* * * * *

By fairy hands their knell is rung;
By forms unseen their dirge is sung;
There Honor comes, a pilgrim gray,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay;
And Freedom shall awhile repair,
To dwell a weeping