Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard

¹The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,

²The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea,

³The plowman homeward plods his weary way,

⁴And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

⁵Now fades the glimm'ring landscape on the sight,

⁶And all the air a solemn stillness holds,

⁷Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,

⁸And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;

⁹Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r

¹⁰The moping owl does to the moon complain

¹¹Of such, as wand'ring near her secret bow'r,

¹²Molest her ancient solitary reign.

¹³Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,

¹⁴Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap,

¹⁵Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,

¹⁶The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

¹⁷The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn,

¹⁸The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed,

¹⁹The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,

²⁰No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

²¹For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,

²²Or busy housewife ply her evening care:

²³No children run to lisp their sire's return,

²⁴Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

²⁵Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,

²⁶Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke;

²⁷How jocund did they drive their team afield!

²⁸How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

²⁹Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,

³⁰Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;

³¹Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile

³²The short and simple annals of the poor.