NOW FADES THE GLIMMERING LANDSCAPE ON THE SIGHT,
AND ALL THE AIR A SOLEMN STILLNESS HOLDS,

SAVE WHERE THE BEETLE WHEELS HIS DRONING FLIGHT,

SAVE THAT FROM YONDER IVY-MANTLED TOWR,
THE MOPING OWL DOES TO THE MOON COMPLAIN
OF SUCH AS, WANDRING NEAR HER SECRET BOWR,
MOLEST. HER ANCIENT SOLITARY REIGN.

OF

PROOF.

BENEATH THOSE 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 SLEEP.

THE BREEZY CALL OF INCENSE-BREATHING MORN.

THE SWALLOW TWITT RING FROM THE STRAW-BUILT SHED,
THE COCK'S SHRILL CLARION, OR THE ECHOING HORN,

NO MORE SHALL ROUSE THEM FROM THEIR LOWLY BED.

PLATE 111.

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