SONNET ON THE DEATH OF RICHARD WEST In vain to me the smiling mornings shine, And redd'ning Phoebus lifts his golden fire; Or cheerful fields resume their green attire: A different object do these eyes require; And new-born pleasure brings to happier men; To warm their little loves the birds complain: The hapless nymph with wonder saw; With many an ardent wish, She stretched, in vain, to reach the prize: What cat's averse to fish? Presumptuous maid! with looks intent Eight times emerging from the flood, Some speedy aid to send. No dolphin came, no Nereid stirred, From hence, ye beauties, undeceived, And be with caution bold. Not all that tempts your wand'ring eyes 1747. 1748 ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea; Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, 5 40 35355 330 25 20 Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r The moping owl does to the moon complain Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn, 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. For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, No children run to lisp their sire's return, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. ΙΟ 15 20 Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, 25 Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe 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, The boast of heraldry, 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 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? 40 Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre. 45 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 The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear; Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 55 Some village Hampden that with dauntless breast 60 Th' applause of list'ning senates to command, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, And read their hist'ry in a nation's eyes, Their lot forbad: nor circumscribed alone 65 Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined; Forbad to wade through slaughter to a throne The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, 70 Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, Their name, their years, spelt by th' unlettered Muse, 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; For thee who, mindful of th' unhonoured dead, Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, 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, Mutt'ring 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 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 through the church-way path we saw him borne: Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay 115 Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." |