THE HEART OF OAK BOOKS. SIXTH BOOK. ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH YARD. Thomas Gray. THE Curfew tolls the knell of parting day, Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r The moping owl does to the moon complain Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 1 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. For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke: 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; Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor. The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r, The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye Proud, impute to these the fault, Can storied urn or animated bust Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? |