ELE GY

WRITTEN IN A

COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD.

I.

HE Curfew tolls the knell of parting day

TH

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

II.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the fight,
And all the air a folemn ftillness holds;

Save where the beetle wheels his drony flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the diftant folds;

The knell of parting day,]

Squilla di lontano,

Che paia 'l giorno pianger, che fi muore.

DANTE, Purgat. 1. 8.

III.

Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower, The moping Owl does to the Moon complain Of fuch, as, wand'ring near her fecret bower, Moleft her ancient, folitary reign.

IV.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's fhade,
Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap,
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
The rude forefathers of the hamlet fleep.

V.

The breezy call of incenfe-breathing Morn,
The Swallow twittering from the ftraw-built shed,
The Cock's fhrill clarion, and the ecchoing horn,
No more fhall rouse them from their lowly bed.

VI.

For them no more the blazing hearth fhall burn,
Or bufy housewife ply her evening care;

No children run to lifp their fire's return,
Or climb his knees the envied kifs to fhare.

VII.

Oft did the harveft 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!

VIII.

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor Grandeur hear, with a difdainful smile,
The fhort and fimple annals of the poor.

IX.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Await alike th' inevitable hour:

The path of glory leads but to the grave.

X.

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,
If Mem'ry o'er their tomb no trophies raise;
Where, through the long-drawn aifle and fretted
vault,

The pealing anthem fwells the note of praise.

XI.

Can ftoried urn, or animated buft,

Back to its manfion call the fleeting breath? Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust? Or Flattery footh the dull cold ear of Death?

XII.

Perhaps, in this neglected fpot, is laid

Some heart once pregnant with celeftial fire; Hands that the rod of empire might have fway'd, Or wak'd to extacy the living lyre.

XIII.

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page,
Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll;
Chill Penury reprefs'd their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the foul!

XIV.

Full many a gem of pureft ray ferene
The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear;
Full many a flower is born to blush unfeen,
And waste its sweetness on the defart air.

Some village Hampden that, with dauntless breast, The little tyrant of his fields withstood;

Some mute inglorious Milton here may reft; Some Cromwell, guiltlefs of his country's blood.

XVI.

Th' applause of lift'ning fenates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,
And read their history in a nation's eyes,

XVII.

Their lot forbad: nor circumfcrib'd alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd: Forbad to wade thro' flaughter to a throne, And fhut the gates of mercy on mankind;

XVIII.