Forgive, ye Proud, th’ involuntary fault
      If Memory to these no trophies raise,
    Where thro’ the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault
      The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

    Can storied urn or animated bust
      Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? 
    Can Honour’s voice provoke the silent dust,
      Or Flatt’ry 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 sway’d,
      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;
    Chill Penury repress’d their noble rage,
      And froze the genial current of the soul.

    Full many a gem of purest ray serene,
      The dark unfathom’d caves of ocean bear: 
    Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
      And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

    Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast
      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 listening senates to command,
      The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
    To scatter plenty o’er a smiling land,
      And read their history in a nation’s eyes,

    Their lot forbad:  nor circumscribed alone
      Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined
    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 tenour of their way.

    Yet e’en those 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 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, ling’ring look behind?

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