ELEGY

XHE Curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd vinds sIoAvly o'er the lea,

The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the workl to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, And ail the air a solemn stillness holds,

Save where the heetle wheels his droning flight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds.

Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower, The moping owl does to the moon complain

Of such as, wandering near lier secret bower, Molest her ancient solitary'reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in niany a mouldering heap,

Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

LE CIMETIERE