* * * * *
_Elegy in a Country Churchyard_.
The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
* * * * *
The short and simple annals of the poor.
* * * * *
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
* * * * *
Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.
* * * * *
Hands, that the rod of empire might have swayed,
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.
* * * * *
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.
* * * * *
Some mute, inglorious Milton here may rest.
And read their history in a nation's eyes.
* * * * *
Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind.
* * * * *
Along the cool, sequestered vale of life
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.
* * * * *
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
* * * * *
And many a holy text around she strews,
That teach the rustic moralist to die.
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