HE curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd wind flowly o'er the lea, The plowman homewards plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
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;
Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r
The mopeing owl does to the moon complain
Of fuch, as wand'ring near her secret bow'r,
Moleft her ancient, folitary reign.
Beneath thofe 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.
The breezy call of incenfe-breathing Morn,
The fwallow twittering from the ftraw-built fhed,
The cock's fhrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
No more shall roufe them from their lowly bed.
For them no more the blazing hearth fhall burn,
Or bufy houfwife ply her evening care:
No children run to lifp their fire's return,
Or climb his knees the envied kifs to fhare.
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 ftroke!
Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obfcure;
Nor Grandeur hear with a difdainful fmile,
The short and fimple 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 raife,
Where thro' the long-drawn isle and fretted vault
The pealing anthem fwells the note of praise.
Can ftoried urn or animated bust
Back to its manfion call the fleeting breath?
Can Honour's voice provoke the silent duft,
Or Flatt'ry footh the dull cold ear of Death?
Perhaps in this neglected fpot is laid
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;
Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd,
Or wak'd to extafy the living lyre.
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 soul,
Full many a gem of pureft ray ferene,
The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear;
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
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 guiltless of his country's blood.
Th' applause of lift'ning fenates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
To scatter plenty o'er a fmiling land,
And read their hift'ry in a nation's eyes.
Their lot forbad: nor circumfcrib'd alone
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd;
Forbad to wade through flaughter to a throne,
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind.
The ftruggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,
Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride
With incenfe kindled at the Mufe's flame.
Far from the madding crowd's ignoble ftrife,
Their fober wishes never learn'd to stray;
Along the cool fequefter'd vale of life
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.
Yet ev❜n these bones from infult to protect
Some frail memorial still erected nigh,
With uncouth rhimes and shapeless fculpture deck'd,
Implores the paffing tribute of a figh.
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