The breezy Call of Incense-breathing Morn, 5 The Swallow twitt’ring from the Straw-built Shed, The Cock’s shrill Clarion, or the ecchoing Horn, No more shall wake them from their lowly Bed. For them no more the blazing Hearth shall burn, 6 Or busy Houswife ply her Evening-Care: No Children run to lisp their Sire’s Return, Or climb his Knees the envied Kiss to share. Oft did the Harvest to their Sickle yield, 7 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, 8 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, 9 And all that Beauty, all that Wealth e’er gave, Awaits alike th’ inevitable Hour. The Paths of Glory lead but to the Grave. Forgive, ye Proud, th’ involuntary Fault 10 If Memory to these no Trophies raise, Where thro’ the long-drawn Isle and fretted Vault The pealing Anthem swells the Note of Praise. Can storied Urn or animated Bust 11 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 12 Some Heart once pregnant with celestial Fire; Hands that the Reins of Empire might have sway’d, Or wak’d to Extacy the living Lyre. But Knowledge to their Eyes her ample Page 13 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, 14 The dark unfathom’d Caves of Ocean bear: Full many a Flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its Sweetness on the desart Air. Some village _Hampden_, that, with dauntless Breast 15 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, 16 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 17 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, 18 To quench the Blushes of ingenuous Shame, Or heap the Shrine of Luxury and Pride With Incense, kindled at the Muse’s Flame.