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Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds ;
Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r,
The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such as, wand'ring near her secret bow'r,
Molest her ancient, solitary reign.
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.