Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

We frolic while 'tis May.

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.

E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.

Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate, Beneath the good how far,-but far above the great.

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?

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