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E LE GY

WRITTEN IN A

COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD.

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THE 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. 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 diftant folds;

Save

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 solitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mouldring heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,

The rude Forefathers of the hamlet fleep.

The breezy call of incenfe breathing Morn,
The fwallow twitt'ring from the ftraw-built (hed,
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 kifs to share.

Oft

COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD.

Oft did the harvest to their fickle yield,

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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 not Ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor grandeur hear with a difdainful fmile,
The short 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 thro' the long-drawnaifle and fretted vault, The pealing anthem fwells the note of praise.

Can

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