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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.

The knell of parting day,]

Squilla di lontano,
Che paia 'lgiorno pianger, che si muore.

DANTE, Purgat. l. 8.

II. Now fades the glimmering landscape on the

sight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds ; Save where the beetle wheels his drony 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 turfin many amould’ring heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.


The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, Theswallow twittering from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, and the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. VI. 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 bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy



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


power, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Await alike th' inevitable hour : The path of glory leads but to the grave.

X. 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 fret

ted 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?
Or flattery sooth 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

Or wak’d 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 repress'd their noble

rage, And froze the genial current of the soul !

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