Golden Numbers Part 81

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.

Th' 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 circ.u.mscribed alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined; 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.

Far from the madding crowd's ign.o.ble 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.

Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect Some frail memorial still erected nigh, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd, Implores the pa.s.sing tribute of a sigh.

Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd Muse, The place of fame and elegy supply: And many a holy text around she strews, That teach the rustic moralist to die.

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 th' unhonour'd dead, Dost in these lines their artless tale relate; If chance, by lonely contemplation led, Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,

Haply some h.o.a.ry-headed swain may say, "Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn Brushing with hasty steps 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 babbles by.

"Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Mutt'ring his wayward fancies he would rove: Now drooping, woful-wan, like one forlorn, Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless love.

"One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill, Along the heath, and near his fav'rite tree; Another came; nor yet beside the rill, Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he:

"The next, with dirges due in sad array, Slow through the church-way 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, And Melancholy mark'd him for her own._

_Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, Heav'n did a recompense 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, Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, (There they alike in trembling hope repose,) The bosom of his Father and his G.o.d._

THOMAS GRAY.

_Polonius to Laertes_

And these few precepts in thy memory Look thou character. Give thy thoughts no tongue Nor any unproportion'd thought his act.

Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar The friends thou hast, and their adoption tried, Grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel; But do not dull thy palm with entertainment Of each new-hatch'd, unfledg'd comrade. Beware Of entrance to a quarrel; but, being in, Bear't, that th' opposer may beware of thee.

Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice; Take each man's censure, but reserve thy judgment.

Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy, But not express'd in fancy; rich, not gaudy: For the apparel oft proclaims the man; And they in France, of the best rank and station, Are of a most select and generous choice in that.

Neither a borrower, nor a lender be; For loan oft loses both itself and friend, And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry.

This above all,--to thine own self be true; And it must follow, as the night the day, Thou canst not then be false to any man.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

_From "Hamlet."_

_The Olive Tree_

Said an ancient hermit, bending Half in prayer upon his knee, "Oil I need for midnight watching, I desire an olive tree."

Then he took a tender sapling, Planted it before his cave, Spread his trembling hands above it, As his benison he gave.

But he thought, the rain it needeth, That the root may drink and swell; "G.o.d! I pray Thee send Thy showers!"

So a gentle shower fell.

"Lord, I ask for beams of summer, Cherishing this little child."

Then the dripping clouds divided, And the sun looked down and smiled.

"Send it frost to brace its tissues, O my G.o.d!" the hermit cried.

Then the plant was bright and h.o.a.ry, But at evensong it died.

Went the hermit to a brother Sitting in his rocky cell: "Thou an olive tree possessest; How is this, my brother, tell?

"I have planted one, and prayed, Now for sunshine, now for rain; G.o.d hath granted each pet.i.tion, Yet my olive tree hath slain!"

Said the other, "I entrusted To its G.o.d my little tree; He who made knew what it needed, Better than a man like me.

"Laid I on him no condition, Fixed no ways and means; so I Wonder not my olive thriveth, Whilst thy olive tree did die."

SABINE BARING-GOULD.

_Coronation_

At the king's gate the subtle noon Wove filmy yellow nets of sun; Into the drowsy snare too soon The guards fell one by one.

Through the king's gate, unquestioned then, A beggar went, and laughed, "This brings Me chance, at last, to see if men Fare better, being kings."

The king sat bowed beneath his crown, Propping his face with listless hand; Watching the hour-gla.s.s sifting down Too slow its shining sand.

"Poor man, what wouldst thou have of me?"

The beggar turned, and pitying, Replied, like one in dream, "Of thee, Nothing. I want the king."

Uprose the king, and from his head Shook off the crown, and threw it by.

"O man! thou must have known," he said, "A greater king than I."

Through all the gates, unquestioned then, Went king and beggar hand in hand.

Whispered the king, "Shall I know when Before _his_ throne I stand?"

The beggar laughed. Free winds in haste Were wiping from the king's hot brow The crimson lines the crown had traced.