The rude Forefathers of the Hamlet sleep.
5The breezy Call of Incense-breathing Morn,
The Swallow twitt’ring from the Straw-built Shed,
The Cock’s shrill Clarion, or the ecchoing Horn,
No more shall wake them from their lowly Bed.
6For them no more the blazing Hearth shall burn,
Or busy Houswife ply her Evening-Care:
No Children run to lisp their Sire’s Return,
Or climb his Knees the envied Kiss to share.
7Oft did the Harvest to their Sickle yield,