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

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Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke;

How jocund did they drive their team a-field!

How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile

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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 the inevitable hour.

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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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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 wak'd to ecstasy the living lyre.

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But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page
Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll;
Chill Penury repressed their noble rage,

And froze the genial current of the soul.

Full many a gem of purest ray serene,
The dark unfathom'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 listening 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 forbad: nor circumscrib'd alone

Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd;
Forbad to wade through slaughter to a throne,
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind,

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 learn'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.

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For who, to dumb Forgetfulness a prey,
This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd,
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;
Ev'n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,
Ev'n 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,

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say:

"Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. "There at the foot of yonder nodding beech, That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, His listless length at noontide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

"Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,

Mutt'ring his wayward fancies he would rove; Now drooping woeful wan, like one forlorn,

Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless love.

"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,

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Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;

"The next, with dirges due in sad array

Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne.—

Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay
Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn."

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THE EPITAPH.

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.

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Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,
Heaven did a recompense as largely send:
He gave to Misery all he had-a tear,

He gained from Heaven ('twas all he wish'd) a friend.

No farther seek his merits to disclose,

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, (There they alike in trembling hope repose) The bosom of his Father and his God.

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NOTICES AND NOTES TO PART IV.

LORD BYRON.

GEORGE GORDON BYRON was born in London in 1788. His father was a captain in the Guards of a somewhat disreputable character, who, having squandered his wife's fortune, retired to the Continent and died there in 1791. Mrs. Byron and her son then went to live at Aberdeen, where they remained in unhappy genteel poverty till 1798, when the latter, on the death of a great-uncle, inherited the family title and estates. Soon afterwards Byron was sent to Harrow, and then to Trinity College, Cambridge, where he spent most of his time for two years in idling and athletics. At the age of nineteen he published his Hours of Idlenessa volume of small poems containing a few lines of beauty, but of little real merit or promise. The Edinburgh Review, however, criticised the book with some severity, and drew from him in answer the clever but spiteful English Bards and Scotch Reviewers, in which he mocked at and satirised the leading writers of the day. On coming of age he took his seat in the House of Lords, residing for the most part at Newstead Abbey. But tiring of his wild life there and of his fancy for politics, he soon went abroad, and spent two years in wandering through the south of Europe. On his return he published the two first cantos of Childe Harold, and at once became famous. During the next four years appeared his Eastern romances-The Giaour, The Bride of Abydos, The Corsair, Lara, The Siege of Corinth, Parisina tales of wild, reckless daring, morbid despair, and scant morality, but abounding in passages of exquisite beauty, and great power of language. They were inspired by Scott's far better lays,' and soon, for the time, put their rivals in the shade. Lord Byron was now the lion of London Society, petted and spoilt to an outrageous extent. But this did not

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