THE Curfew tolls the knell of parting day,

The lowing herd wind slowly 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 stillness holds,. Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;

Save

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Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower, The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such, 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 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.

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For them nó môre 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

COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD. 154

Oft did the harvest to their sickle 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 obscure;
Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile,
The short and simple 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 raise, Where thro' the long-drawnaisle and fretted vault, The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

Can