Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow’r
The moping owl does to the
moon complain 10
Of such, as wand’ring 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 for ever laid,
15
The rude forefathers of the
hamlet sleep.
The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn,[2]
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. 20
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,
25
Their furrow oft the stubborn
glebe[3] has broke;
How jocund did they drive their team afield!
How bowed the woods beneath
their sturdy stroke!
Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny
obscure; 30
Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile
The short and simple annals
of the poor.
The boast of heraldry,[4] the pomp of
pow’r,
And all that beauty, all that
wealth e’er gave,
Awaits alike th’ inevitable hour.
35
The paths of glory lead but
to the grave.
Nor you, ye Proud, impute to these the
fault,
If Mem’ry o’er
their tomb no trophies raise,
Where through the long-drawn aisle and
fretted vault[5]
The pealing anthem swells
the note of praise. 40
Can storied urn[6] or animated[7] bust
Back to its mansion call the
fleeting breath?
Can Honour’s voice provoke[8] the
silent dust,
Or Flatt’ry sooth the
dull cold ear of Death?
Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid
45
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
Rich with the spoils of time
did ne’er unroll; 50
Chill Penury repressed their noble rage,
And froze the genial current
of the soul.
Full many a gem of purest ray serene[9]
The dark unfathomed caves
of ocean bear:
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
55
And waste its sweetness on
the desert air.
Some village-Hampden,[10] that with dauntless
breast,
The little Tyrant of his fields
withstood,
Some mute inglorious Milton[11] here may
rest,
Some Cromwell[12] guiltless
of his country’s blood. 60
Th’ applause of list’ning
senates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin
to despise,
To scatter plenty o’er a smiling
land,
And read their hist’ry
in a nation’s eyes,