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In pain to see the whole. Thrice happy meeting !
Thus, at the shut of ev'n, the weary bird Leaves the wide air, and in some lonely brake Cow'rs down, and dozes till the dawn of day ; Then claps his well-fledg’d wings, and bears away.
WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD.
THE curfew tolls, the knell of parting day,
The lowing berd winds slowly o'er the lea, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness, and to me. Now fades the glimm'ring 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 földs; Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r, The moping owl does to the moon complain 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, The rude forefathers of the bamlet sleep., The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow twittring 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 ev’ning care ; Nor children run to lisp their sire's return, Or climb his knees the envy'd kiss to share.
Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,
penury repress'd their noble rage,
Some village-Hampden, that, with dauntless breast,
their years, spelt by th' unletter'd muse,
On some fond breast the parting soul relies, Some pious drops the closing eye requires ;. 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’ unbonour'd dead, Dost in these lines their artless tale relate If chance, by lonely contemplation led, Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, “ Oft bave we seen him, at the peep of dawn, “ Brushing, with hașty 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 bubbles by. “ Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, “ Mutt'ring his wayward fancies, he would roye ; “ Now drooping, woful wan, like one forlorn, “ Or craz'd with care, or crossd in hopeless love. « One morn I miss'd him on th' accustom'd hill,
Along the heath, and near his fav’rite tree; “ Another came ; nor yet beside the rill,
the lawn, nor at the wood was he. 6. The next, with dirges due, in sad array, “ Slow thro' the churchway path we saw him borne : “ Approach, and read (for thou canst read) the lay, “ Gravid on the stone, beneath yon aged thorn.”