THE COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD

The breezy call of incense-breathiiig morn ,

The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed,

The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horii, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blaziiig 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 ,

Their harrow oft the stubborn glèbe lias broke :

How jocund did they drive their team afield!

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 The short and simple annals of the poor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,

And ail that beauty, ail that wealth e'er gave,

Await alike the', inévitable hour,

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Nor you, ye Proud, impute to thèse the fault. If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise,

Where through the long-drawn aisle and frelted vault The pealing anthem swells the notes of praise.