Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1918.djvu/564

 THOMAS GRAY

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mould'rmg heap,

Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,

The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn,

The swallow twitt'ring 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'

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure,

Nor Gnmdeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,

Awaits alike th j inevitable hour.

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Nor you, ye Proud, impute to These the fault,

If Memory o'er their Tomb no Trophies raise, Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault

The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

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