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 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
      Their Lot forbad:  nor circumscrib’d alone
    Their growing Virtues, but their Crimes confin’d;
    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 Tenor of their Way. 
      Yet ev’n these 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 dye. 
      For who to dumb Forgetfulness a Prey,
    This pleasing anxious Being e’er resign’d,
    Left the warm Precincts of the chearful Day,
    Nor cast one longing ling’ring Look behind! 
      On some fond Breast the parting Soul relies,
    Some pious Drops the closing Eye requires;
    Ev’n from the Tomb the Voice of Nature cries
    Awake, and faithful to her 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 hidden 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 wou’d he stretch,
    ’And pore upon the Brook that babbles by. 
       ’Hard by yon Wood, now frowning as in Scorn,
    ’Mutt’ring his wayward Fancies he wou’d rove,
    ’Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn,
    ’Or craz’d with Care, or cross’d in hopeless Love. 
       ’One Morn I miss’d him on the custom’d Hill,
    ’Along the Heath, and near his fav’rite 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 born. 
    ’Approach and read (for thou can’st read) the Lay,
    ’Grav’d on the Stone beneath yon aged Thorn.