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?
Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;
Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.
But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page 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
The dark unfathorn'd caves of ocean bear:
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, 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.
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 history in a nation's eyes,
Their lot forbade: nor circumscribed alone
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined,
Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, And shut the gates of mercy on mankind,
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