ELE GY

WRITTEN IN A

COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD.

EL EGY

WRITTEN IN A

COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD.

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.

fquilla di lontano

Che paia 'I 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 tower,
The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of fuch, as wand'ring near her fecret bower,
Moleft her antient folitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's fhade, 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 swallow twitt'ring from the ftraw-built fhed, The cock's fhrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more fhall rouse them from their lowly bed.

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 kifs to fhare.

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

The boaft 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