E LE GY

WRITTEN IN A

COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD.

T

HE Curfew tolls* the knell of parting day,

The lowing herd wind flowly o'er the lea,

The plowman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

fquilla di lontano,

Che paia 'l giorno pianger, che fi muore.

Dante. Purgat. 1. 8.

Now

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the fight,

And all the air a folemn ftillness holds,

Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,

And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r
The mopeing owl does to the moon complain
Of fuch, as wand'ring near her fecret bow'r,
Moleft her ancient folitary reign.

Beneath thofe rugged elms, that yew-tree's fhade, Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap,

Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,

The rude Forefathers of the hamlet fleep.

The breezy call of incenfe-breathing Morn,

The swallow twitt'ring from the ftraw-built shed, The cock's fhrill clarion, or the echoing horn,

No more fhall rouse them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or bufy housewife ply her evening care:
No children run to lifp their fire's return,

Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

Oft did the harvest to their fickle yield,
Their furrow oft the ftubborn glebe has broke;
How jocund did they drive their team afield !

How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

Let

And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,

Awaits alike th' inevitable hour.

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Nor you, ye Proud, impute to These the fault, If Mem❜ry o'er their Tomb no Trophies raise, Where thro' the long-drawn ifle and fretted vault

The pealing anthem fwells the note of praise.