TH

By Mr. GRAY.

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 stillness holds,

Save where the beetle wheels his drony flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r
The mopeing 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 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 sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn,
The swallow twittering from the straw-built fhed,
The cock's fhrill 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 houfwife ply her evening care:

No children run to lifp their fire's return,

Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

Oft

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 stroke!

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obfcure;
Nor Grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile,
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 raise,
Where through the long-drawn ifle and fretted vault
The pealing anthem fwells the note of praise.

Can ftoried urn or animated buft

Back to its manfion call the fleeting breath?
Can Honour's voice provoke the filent duft,
Or Flatt'ry footh 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 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 foul.

Full many a gem of purest ray ferene,
The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear;
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And wafte its fweetnefs on the defart air..

Some village-Hampden, that with dauntlefs breaft
The little Tyrant of his fields withstood;
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,
Some Cromwell guiltlefs 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 hist'ry in a nation's eyes

Their