THE COUNTRY CÎBURCH-YARD

The breezy call of incense-breathing mom ,

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 knees the envied kiss to share.

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,

Their harrow oft the stubborn glèbe bas broke :

How jocund did they drive their team afield!

Howbow'dthe 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 aunals 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 giory lead but to the grave.

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

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