E L E G Y WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD. T HE Curfeu tolls* the knell of parting day, The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea, The plowman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness, and to me: fquilla di lontano Che paia 'I giorno pianger, che fi muore. Dante. Purgat. 1. 8. Now Now fades the glimmering landscape on the fight, And all the air a folemn ftillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his drony 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 fuch as, wand'ring near her fecret bow'r, Moleft her ancient folitary reign. Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's fhade, Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, The rude Forefathers of the hamlet fleep. The |