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chieste in altra guisa più convenevole se non se con metterla di nuovo alle stampe, mi sono volentierissimo accinto a sì lodevol impresa, sperando ch' una tal opra porgerà loro gran diletto, gli quali potranno osservare, quanto bene li sentimenti delle due lingue convengano insieme, e corrispondansi con eleganza e bellezza.

AGOSTINO ISOLA.

WRITTEN

IN A

COUNTRY CHURCHYARD.

T

HE curfew tolls the knell of parting day ;

The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea;
The plowman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

T E

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;

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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.

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E LE G

I A

SCRITTA

IN UN

CIMITERO CAMPESTRE.

SEG

EGNA la squilla il dì, che già vien manco;

Mugghia l’armento, e via lento erra e sgombra; Torna a casa il bifolço inchino e stanco, Et a me lascia il mondo e a la fosc'ombra.

Già fugge il piano al guardo, e gli s'invola,
E de l'aere un silenzio alto s' indonna,
Fuor ’ve lo scarabon ronzando vola,
E un cupo tintinnir gli ovifi afsonna;

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E d’erma torre il gufo ognor pensoso
Si duole, al raggio de la luna amico,
Di chi, girando il suo ricetto ombroso,
Gli turba il regno solitario antico.

D:

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,
Where heaves the curf 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 shed,
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 liousewife ply her evening care:
No children run to lisp their sire's return,
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

Oft did the harvest to the sickle 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

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