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 furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke: 
How jocund did they drive their team afield! 
  How bow’d the 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 annals of the poor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow’r,
  And all that beauty, all that wealth e’er gave,
Await alike th’ inevitable hour. 
  The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,
  If memory 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 honour’s voice provoke the silent dust,
  Or flatt’ry 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 empire 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.

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 history in a nation’s eyes,

Their lot forbade:  nor circumscrib’d alone
  Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin’d;
Forbade to wade thro’ 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 ignoble strife,
  Their sober wishes never learn’d to stray;
Along the cool sequester’d vale of life
  They kept the noiseless tenour 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 passing tribute of a sigh.