Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r
The mopeing owl does to the moon complain
Of such, as wand'ring near her secret bow'r,
Moleft her ancient, folitary 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 hamlet fleep.
The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn,
The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed,
The cock’s Thrill 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 evening care :
No children run to lisp their fire's return,
Or climb his knees the envied kifs to share.
Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,
Their farrow oft the Atubborn glebe has broke ;
How jocund did they drive their teem afield !
How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!
Let not Àmbition 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. »