And all the Air a solemn Stillness holds,
Save where the Beetle wheels his droning Flight,
And drowsy Tinklings lull the distant Folds.
3Save 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.
4Beneath 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,