| 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, | 5 |
| 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 tow'r | |
| The moping owl does to the moon complain | 10 |
| Of such as, wand'ring near her secret bow'r, | |
| 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, | 15 |
| The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep. | |
| The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn, | |
| The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed, | |
| The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, | |
| No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. | 20 |
| 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, | 25 |
| 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; | 30 |
| Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile | |
| The short and simple annals of the poor. | |
| The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r, | |
| And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, | |
| Awaits alike th' inevitable hour: | 35 |
| 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. | 40 |
| Can storied urn or animated bust | |
| Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? | |
| Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust, | |
| Or Flatt'ry soothe the dull cold ear of death? | |
| Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid | 45 |
| Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; | |
| Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd, | |
| Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre. | |
| But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page | |
| Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll; | 50 |
| Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage, | |
| And froze the genial current of the soul. | |
| 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, | 55 |
| 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. | 60 |
| Th' 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 history in a nation's eyes, | |
| Their lot forbade: nor circumscribed alone | 65 |
| Their glowing 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, | 70 |
| Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride | |
| With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. | |
| Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, | |
| Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray; | |
| Along the cool sequester'd vale of life | 75 |
| They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. | |
| Yet ev'n 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. | 80 |
| Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd 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, | 85 |
| 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; | 90 |
| Ev'n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, | |
| Ev'n in our Ashes live their wonted Fires. | |
| For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead, | |
| Dost in these lines their artless tale relate; | |
| If chance, by lonely contemplation led, | 95 |
| 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 steps the dews away | |
| To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. | 100 |
| '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, | 105 |
| Mutt'ring his wayward fancies he would rove, | |
| Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn, | |
| Or crazed with care, or cross'd in hopeless love. | |
| 'One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill, | |
| Along the heath and near his fav'rite tree; | 110 |
| 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 | 115 |
| Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn:' | |
|
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. | 120 |
| Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, | |
| Heav'n did a recompense as largely send: | |
| He gave to Mis'ry all he had, a tear, | |
| He gain'd from Heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) a friend. | |
| No farther seek his merits to disclose, | 125 |
| Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, | |
| (There they alike in trembling hope repose,) | |
| The bosom of his Father and his God. |
