The Great Work

Beneath the rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,
Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap,
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
The rude forefathers of the Family sleep.

The breezy call of desert-breathing morn,
The swallow twittering from the pine-built shed,
The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewives ply their 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 bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

Let not indifference mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor Reverence hear without a caring smile,
The short and simple annals of our poor.

We see you there, those who preserve with salt,
With honor o'er their tombs their journey praise,
Where o'er the mountains and the shadowed vault--
You look with wonder to the path they blaze. 

Can storied urn or animated bust
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
Can David's voice provoke the silent dust,
Or call to life the dull cold ear of Death?

Surely in the hallowed spot is laid
Some hearts once pregnant with celestial fire;
Hands that the rod of iron might have stayed,
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page
Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll;
Chill Curses blocked their dances on this stage,
And froze the genial current of the soul.

Their lot forbade: not circumscribed alone
With growing virtues. But their hopes confined;
Reserved to wade from folly to a throne,

Thus held the gates of Mercy for mankind.

Far from the madding crowd's enduring strife,
Their sober wishes never fly astray;
Beyond the cool sequestered veil of life
They keep the humble tenor of their way.

Many a gem of purest ray serene,
In dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear:
Yea, many a limpid flower calls, e’er unseen,
And croons her sweetness to the desert air.

Their name, their years, hailed by the fearless muse,
The place of fame and elegy to bring:
And holy text around her call she strews,
That teach the gentile masses how to sing.

On children brave the parted souls rely,
An atoning act the stated vow requires;
And from the tomb the waiting parents cry,
To quench the fever of their wonted fires.

And now we seek their merits to disclose,
To draw their frailties from the dread abode,
And in their strength recovered hope propose.
We claim the kin of promises bestowed!