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THE CURFEW tolls the knell of parting day, | |
| The lowing herd wind slowly o’er the lea, | |
| The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, | |
| And leaves the world to darkness and to me. | |
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| 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: | |
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| Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower | |
| The moping owl does to the moon complain | 10 |
| Of such as, wand’ring near her secret bow’r, | |
| Molest her ancient solitary reign. | |
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| 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. | |
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| 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 |
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| 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. | |
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| 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 bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! | |
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| 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. | |
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| 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…. | |
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