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HE curfew tolls the knell of parting day b,

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.

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a Dr. Johnson observes, that this Elegy abounds with images which find a mirrour in every mind, and with sentiments to which every bosom VOL, IV.



Now fades the glimmering landscape on the fight,
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 tower
The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of such as, wand'ring near her secret bower,
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.

The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn,
The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built fhed,
The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

returns an echo. The four stanzas beginning, Yet ev'n these bones are, says he, original : I have never teen the sentiments in any other place; yet he that reads chem here, persuades himself that he has always fele them.



[quilla di lontano
Che paia 'l giorno pianger, che si muore.

Dante Purg. 1. 8. G.

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For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her evening care;
No children run to lisp their fire's return,
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

Oft did the harvest to their fickle yield,
Their furrow oft the stubborn 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 destiny obscure;
Nor Grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile,
The short and simple annals of the poor.
The boast 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 you, ye Proud, impute to These the fault,
If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise,
Where through the long-drawn ifle and fretted vault
The pealing anthem fwells the note of praise.

Can storied urn, or animated bust,
Back to its manfion call the fleeting breath?
Can Honour's voice provoke the filent duit,
Or Flatt'ry footh the dull cold ear of Death?

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