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ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUN

T

TRY CHURCHYARD

HE curfew tolls the knell of parting day,

The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea,

The plowman 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 The moping owl does to the moon complain

Of such as, wand'ring near her secret bower,

Molest 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 forever laid,

The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense - breathing Morn,

The swallow twitt'ring from the strawbuilt 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 sire's re

turn,

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 ob

scure;

Nor Grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile,

The short and simple annals of the poor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of

power,

And all that beauty, all that wealth

e'er gave,

Await like the 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 aisle and

fretted vault

The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

Can storied urn or animated bust

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?

Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust,

Or Flatt'ry soothe the dull, cold ear of Death?

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celes

tial fire;

Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed,

Or waked to ecstacy 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 un

seen

And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

Some village-Hampden that with dauntless breast

The little tyrant of his fields with

stood;

Some mute, inglorious Milton here may rest,

Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood.

Th' applause of list'ning senates 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.

Their lot forbad; nor circumscribed alone

Their growing virtues, but their crimes

confined;

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