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WRITTEN IN A

COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD.

HE Curfew tolls v the knell of parting day,

T:

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.

y

-squilla di lontano
Che paia 'l giorno pianger, che si muore.

Dante. Purgat. l. 8.

Now

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,

And all the air a solemn stillness holds,

Save where the beetle wheels his droning light,

And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds ;

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r,

The mopeing owl does to the moon complain

Of such, as wand'ring near her secret bow'r,

Moleft 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

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 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

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 pow'r,

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 Mem'ry o'er their Tomb no Trophies raise,

Where thro' the long-drawn isle and fretted vault

The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

Can

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