Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;[361-3]
Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower[362-4]
The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of such as, wandering near her secret bower,
Molest her ancient solitary reign.[362-5]
Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree’s shade,
Where heaves the turf in many a mold’ring heap,
Each in his narrow cell forever laid,
The rude[362-6] forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,
The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed,
The cock’s shrill clarion,[362-7] or the echoing horn,
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.[362-8]
For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her evening care;[362-9]
No children run to lisp their sire’s return,[363-10]
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.
Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe[363-11] has broke;
How jocund[363-12] did they drive their team a-field!
How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!
Let not Ambition[363-13] 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 power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e’er gave,
Await[363-14] alike th’ inevitable hour:
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.[363-15]
Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,
If Memory o’er their tomb no trophies raise,
Where, through the long-drawn aisle[364-16] and fretted vault,
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.
Can storied urn or animated bust[364-17]
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
Can Honour’s voice provoke[364-18] the silent dust,
Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of Death?