It might be months, or years, or days, I kept no count—I took no note, I had no hope my eyes to raise, And clear them of their dreary mote; At last men came to set me free, 370 I ask’d not why, and reck’d not where. It was at length the same to me, Fetter’d or fetterless to be, I learn’d to love despair. And thus when they appear’d at last, 375 And all my bonds aside were cast, These heavy walls to me had grown A hermitage—and all my own! And half I felt as they were come To tear me from a second home: 380 With spiders I had friendship made, And watch’d them in their sullen trade, Had seen the mice by moonlight play, And why should I feel less than they? We were all inmates of one place, 385 And I, the monarch of each race, Had power to kill—yet, strange to tell! In quiet we had learn’d to dwell— My very chains and I grew friends, So much a long communion tends 390 To make us what we are:—Even I Regain’d my freedom with a sigh. * * * * * =ELEGY, WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD.= The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd wind slowly o’er the lea, The plowman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me. Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, 5 And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds; Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow’r, The moping owl does to the moon complain 10 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 forever laid, 15 The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 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. 20 For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or busy housewife ply her evening care; No children run to lisp their sire’s return, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, 25 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; 30 Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor. The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow’r, And all that beauty, all that wealth e’er gave, Await alike th’inevitable hour, 35 The paths of glory lead but to the grave.