Yet even these bones from insult to protect,
  Some frail memorial still erected nigh,
  With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked,
  Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

  Their names, 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 lingering look behind?

  On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
  Some pious drops the closing eye requires;
  Even from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,
  Even in our ashes live their wonted fires.

  For thee, who mindful of th’ unhonoured 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 noontide 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 missed him on the customed 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 through the church-way path we saw him borne,
  Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay
  Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.’

  THE EPITAPH

Here rests his head upon the lap of earth A youth to fortune and to fame unknown; Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth, And Melancholy marked him for her own.

  Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere;
  Heaven did a recompense as largely send: 
  He gave to Misery (all he had) a tear,
  He gained from Heaven (’twas all he wished) 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._

  THE PROGRESS OF POESY

  I. 1

  Awake, Aeolian lyre, awake,
  And give to rapture all thy trembling strings! 
  From Helicon’s harmonious springs
  A thousand rills their mazy progress take;
  The laughing flowers that round them blow
  Drink life and fragrance as they flow. 
  Now the rich stream of music winds along
  Deep, majestic, smooth, and strong,
  Through verdant vales and Ceres’ golden reign: 
  Now rolling down the steep amain,
  Headlong, impetuous, see it pour;
  The rocks and nodding groves rebellow to the roar.