Let not ambition mock their useful toil, | Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; ¦ Nor grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile', | The short, and simple annals of the poor. | The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, | The paths of glory, lead but to the grave. | Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault., | Can storied urn, or animated bust', | Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? | Can honor's voice provoke the silent dust, Or flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of death?! Perhaps in this neglected spot, is laid' | Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; | But knowledge to their eyes her ample page', | Full many a gem of purest ray serene, | The dark, unfathom'd caves of ocean, bear; | Some village Hampden that, with dauntless breast',; Desert air; not dez-zer-tair. The applause of list'ning senates to command, { And read their hist'ry in a nation's eyes', Their lot forbade, nor circumscrib'd alone | The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, ¡ With incense kindled at the muse's flame. I 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. I Yet e'en these bones, from insult to protect', [ Their names', their years', spell'd by the unletter'd muse, For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey', ] This pleasing, anxious being e'er resign'd', | On some fond breast the parting soul relies; | For thee who, mindful of the unhonor'd dead', ' Haply some hoary-headed swain may say', | 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 bubbles by. | Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn', | Mutt'ring his wayward fancies, he would rove';; Now drooping, wo'ful, wan, like one forlorn', | Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless love, One morn I miss'd him on the accustom'd hill', | Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he ̧.] The next, with dirges due, in sad array', | Slow through the church-yard path, we saw him borne -| Approach, and read (for thou canst read) the lay', [ 'Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." THE EPITAPH. Here rests his head upon the lap of earth', ] Large was his bounty, and his soul, sincere-1 He gain'd from Heav''n (''t was all he wish'd) a friend. | No farther seek his merits to disclose', I Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, | (There they alike in trembling hope repose`) | "The bosom of his Father, and his God. I DOUGLAS'S ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF. (HOME.) My name is Norval; on the Grampian hills | This moon, which rose last night, round as my shield,' : The road he took then hasted to my friends | I met advancing. The pursuit I led, | Till we o'ertook the spoil-encumber'd foe. ¡ We fought, and conquer'd. | Ere a sword was drawn, | That our good king had summon'd his bold peers! 'Yon trembling coward who forsook his master. THE GRAVE OF FRANKLIN. (MISS C. H. WATERMAN.) No chisell'd urn is rear'd to thee; | A corner holds thy sacred clay; | Have worn a path that marks the way. I Wild plantain weeds, and tall grass wave', | Whose dust it is that sleeps below.* | That name's enough. that honor'd name' No aid from eulogy requires,: 'Tis blended with thy country's fame,¦ And flashes round her lightning spires. | The body of Frank'in lies in Christ-Church burying-ground, corner of Mulberry and Fifth street, Poiladelphia. The inscription apon his tomb-stone is as follows: |