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ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD.

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(GRAY.)

The curfew tolls the knell of 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 glimm'ring 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 for ever laid',

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. |

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn', |

The swallow, twitt'ring from the straw-built shed1, | The cock's shrill cla'rion, 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、 ; |
Nor children run to lisp their sire's return, |

Or climb his knees', the envied kiss to share. I

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield; |

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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 ||

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Let not ambition mock their useful toil, |

Their homely joys, and destiny obscure'; | 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, alike, 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, through 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,

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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 em'pire might have sway'd1, |
Or wak'd to ecstasy the living lyre. I

But knowledge to their eyes her ample page',
Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll ; |
Chill penury repress'd their noble rage', |
And froze the genial current of the soul. I

Full many a gem of purest ray serene, |

The dark, unfathom'd caves of ocean, bear; |
Full many a flow'er, 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. |

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The 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 hist'ry in a nation's eyes', |

Their lot forbade - nor circumscrib'd alone' |
Their growing virtues ; | but, their crimes' confin'd', |
Forbade to wade through slaughter to a 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. I

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife', | ('Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray',) Along the cool, sequester'd vale of life', |

They kept the noiseless tenor of their way,, |

Yet e'en these bones, from insult to protect', |
Some frail memorial still', erected nigh', |
With uncouth rhymes, and shapeless sculpture deck'd', |
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. |

Their names', their years', spell'd by the unletter'd muse',
The place of fame, and elegy, supply; |
And many a holy text around she strews', I
That teach the rustic moralist to die. I

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey', ]

This pleasing, anxious being, e'er resign'd', |
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day', ]
Nor cast one longing, ling'ring look behind? |

On some fond breast, the parting soul, relies'; }
Some pious drops, the closing eye requires ; |
E'en from the tomb, the voice of nature, cries', |
E'en in our ash'es live their wonted fires. |

For thee, who, mindful of the unhonour'd dead',
Dost in these lines their artless tale, relate', ]
If, chance, by lonely contemplation led',

Some kindred spirit, shall inquire thy fate', |

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say', |
"Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn',
Brushing, with hasty step, the dews away', |
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. |

There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech', |
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high', |
His listless length at noontide would he stretch', |
And pore upon the brook that bubbles by,. |

Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn', |
Mutt'ring his wayward fancies, he would rove'; |
Now drooping, wo'ful, wan, like one forlorn',!

Or craz❜d with care, or cross'd in hopeless love,.

One morn I miss'd him on the accustom'd hill', |
Along the heath', and near his fav'rite tree; |
Another came; nor yet beside the rill', ¡

Nor up the lawn', I nor at the wood was he. I

The next, with dirges due, in sad array', |

Slow through the church-yard path, we saw him borne、

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Approach, and read' ('for thou canst read) the lay', ] "Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn."

THE EPITAPH.

Here rests his head upon the lap of earth', |
A youth to Fortune, and to Fame, unknown; |
Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth', [
And Melancholy mark'd him for her own. |

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