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THE GRAVE.

Unless by man the spot be clad
With terrors not its own.

To nature it seems just as dear
As earth's most cheerful site;
The dew-drops glitter there as clear,
The sunbeams shine as bright.

The showers descend as softly there
As on the loveliest flowers;
Nor does the moonlight seem more fair
On Beauty's sweetest bowers.

"Ay! but within-within, there sleeps
One, o'er whose mouldering clay
The loathsome earth-worm winds and creeps,
And wastes that form away."

And what of that? The frame that feeds

The reptile tribe below,

As little of their banquet heeds,

As of the winds that blow.

BERNARD BARTON.

'Twas then great Marlborough's mighty soul was proved

That, in the shock of charging hosts unmoved,

Amidst confusion, horror, and despair,

Examined all the dreadful scenes of war:

In peaceful thought the field of death survey'd,

To fainting squadrons sent the timely aid,

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ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD.

Inspired repulsed battalions to engage,
And taught the doubtful battle where to rage.
So when an angel, by Divine command,
With rising tempests shakes a guilty land.
Such as of late o'er pale Britannia pass'd,
Calm and serene he drives the furious blast:
And, pleased th' Almighty's orders to perform,
Rides in the whirlwind, and directs the storm.

ADDISON. [From "The Campaign."]

Elegy written in a Country Church-yard.

HE curfew tolls the knell of parting day ;-
The lowing herd winds 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,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds;

Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds ;

Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower,
The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of such as, wandering 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 mouldering heap,

Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD.

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,

The swallow, twittering 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,
Or busy housewife 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;

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!

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