Thomas Gray

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?

And hie him home, at evening's close, To sweet repast and calm repose.

The hues of bliss more brightly glow, Chastised by sabler tints of woe.

One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd 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.

Ruin seize thee, ruthless king! Confusion on thy banners wait! Though fann'd by Conquest's crimson wing, They mock the air with idle state.

When love could teach a monarch to be wise, And gospel-light first dawn'd from Bullen's eyes.

Too poor for a bribe, and too proud to importune, He had not the method of making a fortune.

Here rests his head upon the lap of earth, A youth to fortune and to fame unknown: Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth, And Melancholy mark'd him for her own.

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn.

The 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.