EL E G Y WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD. THE Curfew tolls + the knell of parting day, The lowing herd wind flowly o'er the lea, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me. +fquilla di lontano Che paia 'l giorno pianger, che fi muore. 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 that, from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r The moping Owl does to the moon complain Of fuch as wand'ring near her secret bow'r, Moleft her ancient folitary reign. Beneath thofe rugged elms, that yew-tree's fhade, Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever láid, The breezy call of incenfe-breathing Morn, bed. |