THE Curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd wind 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, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower, Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering 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 twittering from the straw-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, 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 bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! 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 heraldy, the pomp of power, The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, Can storied urn or animated bust, Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; Hands that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or wak'd to ecstacy the living lyre. But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page Full many a gem of purest ray serene, The dark unfathom'd caves of Ocean bear; Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness in the desert air. Some vilage-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. Th' applause of list'ning senates to command, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, And read their hist'ry in a nation's eyes, Their lot forbad; nor circumscrib'd alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd; Forbad to wade thro' slaughter to a throne, And shut the gates of mercy on mankind; The struggling pangs of conscious Truth to hide, With incense kindled at the Muse's flame, Far from the madding crowd's ignoble ftrife, They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. Yet e'en these bones, from insult to protect, Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd Muse, For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, B 3 On some fond breast the parting soul relies, For thee, who mindful of th' unhonour'd Dead, Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, There at the foot of yonder nodding beech, "That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, 'His listless length at noon-tide would he stretch, 'And pore upon the brook that babbles by. Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Mutt'ring his wayward fancies, he would rove; Now drooping, woeful wan! like one forlorn, 'Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless love 'One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill 'Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he: |