| |
| 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 tower | |
| The moping owl does to the moon complain | 10 |
| 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 for ever laid, | 15 |
| 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. 1 | 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: 2 | |
| 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 power, | |
| And all that beauty, all that wealth e’er gave, | |
| Await 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 tombs no trophies raise, | |
| Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault 3 | |
| 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 Flattery 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 swayed, | |
| 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, 4 | |
| 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, | 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 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 | 65 |
| Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined; | |
| Forbade to wade thro’ 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 even 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 lingering look behind? | |
| |
| On some fond breast the parting soul relies, | |
| Some pious drops the closing eye requires; | 90 |
| E’en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, | |
| E’en 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 |
| Muttering 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 favourite 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 agèd thorn:’ | |
| |
The Epitaph 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, | |
| Heaven did a recompense as largely send: | |
| He gave to Misery all he had, a tear, | |
| He gain’d from Heaven (’twas all he wish’d) a friend. | |
| |
| No farther seek his merits to disclose, | 125 |
| Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, | |
| (Here they alike in trembling hope repose,) | |
| The bosom of his Father and his God. | |
