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ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY
CHURCHYARD.

HE curfew tolls the knell of | The cock's shrill clarion or the echoing horn No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

T

parting day,

The lowing herd winds
slowly o'er the lea,
The ploughman homeward
plods his weary way,

And leaves the world to
darkness and to me.

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 tower

For them no more the blazing hearth shall
burn

Or busy housewife 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 their sickle yield,

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke;

How jocund did they drive their team afield!

How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys and destiny obscure,

The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile Molest her ancient solitary reign. The short and simple annals of the poor.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew tree's The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, shade,

Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering 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 twittering from the strawbuilt shed,

And all that beauty, all that wealth, e'er gave,

Await alike the 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

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Where through the long-drawn aisle and | To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land

fretted vault

The pealing anthem swells the note of

praise.

Can storied urn or animated bust

And read their history in a nation's eyes,

Their lot forbade; nor circumscribed alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined,

Back to its mansion call the fleeting Forbade to wade through slaughter to a

breath?

Can Honor's voice provoke the silent dust, Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of Death?

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid

Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire,

Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed

Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre;

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample

page,

Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll;

Chill Penury repressed their noble rage

And froze the genial current of the soul.

Full many a gem of purest ray serene

The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear; Full many a flower is born to blush unseen.

And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

Some village Hampden that with dauntless

breast

The little tyrant of his fields withstood, Some mute inglorious Milton, here may rest; Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood.

The applause of listening senates to command,

The threats of pain and ruin to despise,

throne

And shut the gates of mercy on mankind;

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,

To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,

Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride

With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, Their sober wishes never learned to stray; Along the cool sequestered vale of life

They kept the noiseless tenor of their

way.

Yet, even these bones from insult to protect, Some frail memorial, still erected nigh, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked,

Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

Their name, their years, spelt by the unlettered Muse,

The place of fame and elegy supply, And many a holy text around she strews That teach the rustic moralist to die.

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,

This pleasing anxious being e'er resigned, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind?

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Along the heath and near his favorite Can you bear me to talk with you frankly? tree;

Another came, nor yet beside the rill,

There is much that heart could say,

you

my

And

Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood, was he;

know we were children togetherhave quarrelled and "made up" in play.

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