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us would have seemed to require ages. At this hour wise intelligences may terminate long and patient pursuits of knowledge in such discoveries as shall give a new science to their race. At this hour a whole race of improved and virtuous beings may be elevated to a higher station in the great system of beings. At this hour some new mode of Divine operation, some new law of Nature, which was not required before, may be introduced into the first trial of its action. At this hour the most strange suspensions of regular laws may take place at the will of Him that appointed them, for the sake of commanding a solemn attention, and confirming some Divine communication by miracles. At this hour the inhabitants of the creation are most certainly performing more actions than any faculty of mind, less than infinite, can observe or remember. All this, and incomparably more than all this, a philosopher and a Christian would delight to imagine. And all that he can imagine in the widest stretch of thought, is as nothing in comparison with what most certainly takes place in so vast a universe every hour, and will take place this very hour in which these faint conjectures are indulged.

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ENEATH those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,

Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering 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 twittering 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 knces, 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!

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The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,

And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Await alike the 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.

Can storicd urn or animated bust

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath ? Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust,

Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of Death ?

Perhaps in this neglected spot are 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 unrol; 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 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.

The 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 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 :

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 even 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.

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