Now fades the glimmering landscape on the fight, And all the air a folemn ftillness 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 fuch, as wand'ring near her fecret bow'r, Moleft her ancient folitary reign. Beneath thofe 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 The breezy call of incenfe-breathing Morn, The swallow twitt'ring from the ftraw-built shed, The cock's fhrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or bufy housewife ply her evening care: No children run to lifp their fire's return, Or climb his knees the envied kifs to fhare Oft did the harveft to their fickle yield, Their furrow oft the ftubborn glebe has broke; How jocund did they drive their team afield ! How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! Let |