Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;
3. Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower,
The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of such as, wandering near her secret bower,
Molest her ancient, solitary reign.
4. Beneath those rugged elms, that ewe-tree’s shade,
Where heaves the turf in many a moldering heap,
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.