Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, If Mem’ry o’er their tomb no trophies raise, Where thro’ the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. 40 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 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 sway’d, Or wak’d 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 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, 55 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. 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. Their lot forbade: nor circumscrib’d alone 65 Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin’d; Forbade to wade thro’ 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, 70 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 75 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. 80 Their name, their years, spelt by th’ unletter’d 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, 85 This pleasing anxious being e’er resign’d, 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; 90 Ev’n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, Ev’n in our ashes live their 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, 95 Some kindred spirit shall enquire thy fate,—