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Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,
Yet ev❜n these bones from insult to protect
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd,
Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd muse,
And many a holy text around she strews,
For who to dumb Forgetfulness a prey,
On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
For thee, who mindful of th' unhonour'd Dead
Haply some hoary-headed Swain may say,
Brushing with hasty steps the dews away
"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, woeful 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,
'The next with dirges due in sad array
'Slow thro' the church-way path we saw him born.
Approach and read (for thou can'st read) the lay, '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:
Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,
He gain'd from Heav'n ('twas 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 God.
END OF THE POEMS.