Of such as, wandering near her secret bower,

Molest her ancient solitary reign.

dead

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,

Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap,'

Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,

The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,

NO more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

For them no more) the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her evening care;
No children run to lisp their sire's return,

Or climb his knees, the envied kiss to share.