THE 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, wandering 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 mouldering heap,

Each in his narrow cell forever 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,

Or busy housewife ply her evening care; No children run to lisp their sire's return,

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 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 memory 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 Honor's voice provoke the silent dust, Or Flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of death?

Perhaps, in this neglected spot, is laid

Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire -

Hand, 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 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

The applause of listening 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 forbade; nor circumscribed alone

Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined, -

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.

Far from the maddening crowd's ignoble strife, Their sober wishes never learnt to stray;

Along the cool, sequestered vale of life They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

Yet even these bones from insult to protect,

Some frail memorial still erected nigh, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked,

Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

Their names, their years, spelled by th' unlettered Muse

The place of fame and elegy supply; And many a holy text around she strews,

That teach the rustic moralist to die.

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,

This pleasing, anxious being e'er resigned, -

Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,

Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind?

"but how we speak to these little ones let each of us beware." 563

On some fond breast the parting soul relies, Some pious drops the closing eye requires;

Even from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, Even in our ashes live their wonted fires.

For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonored dead, Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;

If chance, by lonely contemplation led, Some kindred spirit shall enquire thy fate -

Haply, some hoary- headed swain may say, "Oft have we seen him, at the peep of dawn.

Brushing, with hasty steps, 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 babbles by.

"Hard by yon wood, now smiling, as in scorn, Muttering his wayward fancies, he would rove;

Now drooping, woful-wan, like one forlorn, Or crazed with care, or crossed with hopeless love.

"One morn I missed him on th' accustomed hill, Along the heath and near his favorite tree;

Another came, - nor yet beside the rill, Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he.

"The next, with dirges due, in sad array, Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne;

Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay, Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn."