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 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 mem'ry 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 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; |
Hands that the rod of em'pire might have sway'd, |
Or wak'd to ecstasy the living lyre. |

But knowledge to their eyes her ample page', |
Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll; |
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. I

Desert air; not dez-zer-tair.

The applause of list'ning senates to command, {
The threats of pain, and ruin to despise, |
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land',

And read their hist'ry in a nation's eyes',

Their lot forbade, nor circumscrib'd alone |
Their growing virtues; but, their crimes' confin'd,
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. 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', [
Some frail memorial still', erected nigh', |
With uncouth rhymes, and shapeless sculpture deck'd', |
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. |

Their names', their years', spell'd by the unletter'd muse,
The place of fame, and elegy, supply.; |
And many a holy text around she strews', I
That teach the rustic moralist to die. I

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey', ]

This pleasing, anxious being e'er resign'd', |
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day',
Nor cast one longing, ling'ring look behind? |

On some fond breast the parting soul relies; |
Some pious drops the closing eye requires. ;]
E'en from the tomb, the voice of nature cries', }
E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires |

For thee who, mindful of the unhonor'd dead', '
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate', I
If, chance, by lonely contemplation led', [
Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate',

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say', |
"Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn', |
Brushing, with hasty step, the dews away', |
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. |

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', |
Along the heath', and near his fav'rite tree; |
Another came; nor yet beside the rill', į

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', ]
A youth to Fortune, and to Fame, unknown; [
Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth', j
And Melancholy mark'd him for her own.

Large was his bounty, and his soul, sincere-1
Heaven did a rec'ompense as largely send
He gave to Mis'ry all he had, a tear; |

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 |
My father feeds his flocks.; a frugal swain |
Whose constant cares were to increase his store', I
And keep his only son, myself, at home. :|
For I had heard of bat'tles, and I long'd
To follow to the field some warlike lord; |
And heaven soon granted what my sire denied!]

This moon, which rose last night, round as my shield,'
Had not yet fill'd her horns, when by her light, |
A band of fierce barbarians from the hills, I
Rush'd like a torrent down upon the vale,
Sweeping our flocks, and herds. The shepherds fled
For safety, and for succor. | I, alone, |
With bended bow, and quiver full of arrows, |
Hover'd about the enemy, and mark'd

:

The road he took then hasted to my friends |
Whom, with a troop of fifty chosen men, |

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, |
An arrow from my bow had pierc'd their chief |
Who wore, that day, the arms which now I wear. }
Returning home in triumph, I disdain'd
The shepherd's slothful life.; and, having heard |

That our good king had summon'd his bold peers!
To lead their warriors to the Carron side, |
I left my father's house, and took with me |
A chosen servant to conduct my steps.

'Yon trembling coward who forsook his master.
Journeying with this intent, | I pass'd these towers, ]
And, heaven-directed, came this day to do |
The happy deed that gilds my humble name. |

THE GRAVE OF FRANKLIN.

(MISS C. H. WATERMAN.)

No chisell'd urn is rear'd to thee; |
No sculptur'd scroll enrolls its page |
To tell the children of the free', I
Where rests the patriot, and the sage. I
Far in the city of the dead', |

A corner holds thy sacred clay; |
And pilgrim feet, by reverence led', I

Have worn a path that marks the way. I
There, round thy lone, and simple grave', |
Encroaching on its marble gray', |

Wild plantain weeds, and tall grass wave', |
And sunbeams pour their shadeless ray. |
Level with earth, thy letter'd stone'!
And hidden oft by winter's snow-
Its modest record tells alone' |

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: