THOMAS GRAY
The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,
Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.
Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife Their sober wishes never Icarn'd to stray;
Along the cool sequester'd vale of life
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.
Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect Some frail memorial still erected nigh,
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd muse,
The place of fame and elegy supply: And many a holy text around she strews,
That teach the rustic moralist to die.
For who, to dumb Forget fulness a prey, This pleasing anxious being e'er resigned,
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing ling'ring look behind ?
On some fond breast the parting soul relies, Some pious drops the closing eye requires;
E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, E'en in our Ashes live their wonted Fires.
For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead, Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;
If chance, by lonely contemplation led,
Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,
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