Chill penury repress'd their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.

A fav'rite has no friend!

From toil he wins his spirits light, From busy day the peaceful night; Rich, from the very want of wealth, In heaven's best treasures, peace and health.

Each in his narrow cell forever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

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.

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 history in a nation's eyes.

Hands that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.