So these four words above the city's noise
Hung like the accents of an angel's voice.
And evermore from the high barbican,
Saluted each returning caravan.
Lost is that city's glory. Every gust
Lifts, with crisp leaves, the unknown pasha's dust,
And all is ruin, save one wrinkled gate
Whereon is written, "Only God is great."
Elegy written in a Country Churchyard
The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea,
The ploughman 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,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds:
Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r,
The moping 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 forefathers of the hamlet sleep.