by Thomas Gray

“ Slow thro' the church-way path we saw him born.
Approach and read (for thou can'st read) the lay,
116 Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.
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,
120 And melancholy mark'd him for her own. ”

“ And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Awaits alike th'inevitable hour.
36 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 thro' the long-drawn isle and fretted vault,
40 The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.
Can storied urn or animated bust
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
Can honour's voice provoke the silent dust,
44 Or flatt'ry sooth the dull cold ear of death? ”

“ With uncouth rhimes and shapeless sculpture deck'd,
80 Implores the passing 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,
84 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 chearful day,
88 Nor cast one longing ling'ring look behind?
On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
Some pious drops the closing eye requires ”