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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.

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