Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, 55
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. 60
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 hist’ry in a nation’s eyes.