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E'en all at once together found—
DIRGE IN CYMBELINE,
SUNG BY GUIDERUS AND ARVIRAGUS OVER FIDELE, SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD.
TO fair Fidele's grassy tomb
Soft maids and village hinds shall bring
Each opening sweet of earliest bloom,
And rifle all the breathing Spring.
No wailing ghost shall dare appear,
But shepherd lads assemble here,
And melting virgins own their love.
No withered witch shall here be seen-
The redbreast oft, at evening hours,
To deck the ground where thou art laid.
When howling winds and beating rain
The tender thought on thee shall dwell,
Each lonely scene shall thee restore,
"HOW SLEEP THE BRAVE."
OW sleep the brave, who sink to rest By all their country's wishes blessed! When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, Returns to deck their hallowed mould, She there shall dress a sweeter sod Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.
By fairy hands their knell is rung;
ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD
HE curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herds wind slowly o'er the lea, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
Save where the beetle wheels his drony flight,
Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower,
The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such as, wand'ring near her secret bower, 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 forever laid,
The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,
The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed,
For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke: How jocund did they drive their team afield!
How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!
Let not ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile
The short and simple annals of the poor.
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
The paths of glory lead-but to the grave!
Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,
Can storied urn, or animated bust,
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
Perhaps, in this neglected spot, is laid
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire ;-
But knowledge to their eyes her ample page,
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,
Th' applause of list'ning senates to command,
And read their history in a nation's eyes,
Their lot forbade: nor circumscribed alone
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confinedForbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, And shut the gates of mercy on mankind ;—
The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,
Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride
With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.
Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,
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 rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.