TH

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.

Now

a Dr. Johnfon obferves, that this Elegy abounds with images which find a mirrour in every mind, and with fentiments to which every bosom

VOL. IV.

A

returns

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the fight,
And all the air a folemn stillness holds,

Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowfy tinklings lull the distant folds;

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower
The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of fuch as, wand'ring near her fecret bower,
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 sleep.

The breezy call of incenfe-breathing Morn,
The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed,
The cock's fhrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
No more fhall rouse them from their lowly bed.

returns an echo. The four ftanzas beginning, Yet ev'n these bones are, fays he, original: I have never seen the sentiments in any other place;. yet he that reads them here, perfuades himself that he has always felt

them.

IMITATION.

fquilla di lontano

Che paia 'l giorno pianger, che fi muore.

Dante Purg. 1. 8. G.

For

For them no more the blazing hearth fhall 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 stubborn glebe has broke;
How jocund did they drive their team afield!
How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obfcure;
Nor Grandeur hear, with a difdainful smile,
The fhort and fimple annals of the poor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Await alike th' inevitable hour;

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Nor you, ye Proud, impute to These the fault,
If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raife,
Where through the long-drawn ifle and fretted vault
The pealing anthem fwells the note of praise.

Can ftoried urn, or animated bust,

Back to its manfion call the fleeting breath?
Can Honour's voice provoke the filent-duft,
Or Flatt'ry footh the dull cold ear of Death?

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the fight,
And all the air a folemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowfy tinklings lull the diftant folds;

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower
The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of fuch as, wand'ring near her secret bower,
Moleft her ancient, folitary reign..

Beneath thofe rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,
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 straw-built shed,
The cock's fhrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
No more fhall rouse them from their lowly bed.

returns an echo. The four ftanzas beginning, Yet ev'n these bones are,. fays he, original: I have never seen the fentiments in any other place ;. yet he that reads them here, persuades himself that he has always felt

For them no more the blazing hearth fhall burn,
Or bufy housewife ply her evening care;

No children run to lifp their fire's return,
Or climb his knees the envied kifs to share.

Oft did the harvest to their fickle yield,
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke;
How jocund did they drive their team afield!
How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and deftiny obfcure;
Nor Grandeur hear, with a difdainful fmile,
The fhort and fimple annals of the poor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Await alike th' inevitable hour;

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Nor you, ye Proud, impute to These the fault,
If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raife,
Where through the long-drawn ifle and fretted vault
The pealing anthem fwells the note of praite.

Can ftoried urn, or animated bust,

Back to its manfion call the fleeting breath?
Can Honour's voice provoke the filent duft,
Or Flatt'ry footh the dull cold ear of Death?