The Curfeu tolls, the knell of parting day, The lowing herd winds 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, And all the air a solemn stillness holds; Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, Or 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 laid, The rude forefather's 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 rouze them from their lowly bed. For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or busy housewife ply her ev'ning 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, 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 joy, and destiny obscure; Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile, The short and simple annals of the poor. The boasts of heraldry, the pomp of power, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Awaits alike th' inevitable hour, The paths of glory, lead but to the grave. Forgive, ye proud, the involuntary fault, If memory to these no trophies raise, Where thro' the long-drawn isle and fretted vault, The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. Can storied urn, or animated bust Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can honour's voice provoke the silent dust, Or Flatt'ry sooth the dull cold ear of death? Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire, Hands that the reins of empire might have sway'd, Or wak'd to extasy the living lyre. But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll; Chill penury repress'd their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul. Full many a gem of purest ray serene, The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear: Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desart air. Some village-HAMPDEN that with dauntless breast The little tyrant of his fields withstood: Some mute inglorious MILTON here may rest, Some CROMWELL guiltless of his country's blood. Th' applause of list'ning senates to command, The threats of pain and ruin to despise,