Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his drony fight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds ;
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,
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 faia,
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.
For thèm no more the blazing heardh shall burn,
Or busy houswife ply her evening care :
No children run to lisp their 'Tire's return, .
Or climb his knees the envied kifs to share.