WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-Y A R D. GRAY. THE curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd winds flowly o'er the lea, Save where the beetle wheels his drony flight, Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r, The moping owl does to the Moon complain Of fuch, as, wand'ring near her fecret bow'r, Moleft her ancient, folitary reign. Beneath thofe 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 incenfe-breathing morn, The swallow,twitt'ring from the ftraw-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 climb his knees the envied kifs to share. Oft did the harvest to their fickle yield; Their furrow oft the ftubborn glebe has broke; How jocund did they drive their teams afield! How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! Let not ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and deftiny obfcure; The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r, The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, Can ftoried urn, or animated bust, Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can Honour's voice provoke the filent dust, Or Flatt'ry foothe the dull cold ear of death? Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celeftial fire: Hands, that the rod of empire might have fway'd, Or wak'd to extafy the living lyre. But knowledge to their eyes her ample page, And froze the genial current of the foul. Some village-Hampden; that with dauntless breaft Th' applause of lift'ning fenates to command, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, And read their history in a nations eyes, Their lot forbade: nor circumfcrib'd alone Their growing virtues but their crimes confin'd; Forbade to wade through flaughter to a throne, And shut the gates of mercy on mankind; The The ftruggling pangs of confcious truth to hide; With incense kindled at the Mufe's flame. Far from the madding crowd's ignoble ftrife They kept the noiseless tenor of their way, Yet e'en these bones from infult to protect, Some frail memorial ftill erected nigh, With uncouth rhimes and shapelefs fculpture deck'd, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd muse, And many a holy text around she strews, For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, On fome fond breast the parting foul relies, F For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead, Haply fome hoary-headed swain may say, "Oft have we feen him, at the peep of dawn, Brushing, with hafty fteps, the dews away, To meet the fun upon the upland lawn. There at the foot of yonder nodding beech, Or craz'd with care, or crofs'd in hopeless love. One morn I miss'd him on th' accustom'd hill, Along the heath, and near his fav'rite tree: Another came; nor yet beside the rill, Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he, The next, with dirges due, in sad array, Slow thro' the church-yard path we saw him borne, Approach and read (for thou canft read) the lay, Grav'd on the ftone beneath yon aged thorn." |