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THE CURFEW tolls the knell of parting day, |
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The lowing herd winds slowly o’er the lea, |
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The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, |
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And leaves the world to darkness and to me. |
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Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, |
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And all the air a solemn stillness holds, |
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Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, |
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And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds: |
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Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower |
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The moping owl does to the moon complain |
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Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, |
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Molest her ancient solitary reign. |
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Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree’s shade |
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Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, |
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Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, |
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The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep. |
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The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, |
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The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, |
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The cock’s shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, |
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No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. |
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For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn |
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Or busy housewife ply her evening care: |
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No children run to lisp their sire’s return, |
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Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. |
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Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, |
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Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; |
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How jocund did they drive their team afield! |
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How bow’d the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! |
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Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, |
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Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; |
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Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile |
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The short and simple annals of the Poor. |
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The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, |
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And all that beauty, all that wealth e’er gave |
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Awaits alike th’ inevitable hour:— |
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The paths of glory lead but to the grave. |
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Nor you, ye Proud, impute to these the fault |
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If Memory o’er their tomb no trophies raise, |
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Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault |
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The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. |
40 |
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Can storied urn or animated bust |
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Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath, |
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Can Honour’s voice provoke the silent dust, |
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Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of Death? |
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Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid |
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Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; |
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Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway’d, |
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Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre: |
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But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page, |
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Rich with the spoils of time, did ne’er unroll; |
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Chill Penury repress’d their noble rage, |
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And froze the genial current of the soul. |
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Full many a gem of purest ray serene |
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The dark unfathom’d caves of ocean bear: |
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Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, |
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And waste its sweetness on the desert air. |
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Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast |
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The little tyrant of his fields withstood, |
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Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, |
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Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country’s blood. |
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Th’ applause of listening senates to command, |
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The threats of pain and ruin to despise, |
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To scatter plenty o’er a smiling land, |
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And read their history in a nation’s eyes |
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Their lot forbad: nor circumscribed alone |
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Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined; |
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Forbad to wade through slaughter to a throne, |
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And shut the gates of mercy on mankind; |
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The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, |
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To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, |
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Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride |
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With incense kindled at the Muse’s flame. |
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Far from the madding crowd’s ignoble strife |
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Their sober wishes never learn’d to stray; |
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Along the cool sequester’d vale of life |
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They kept the noiseless tenour of their way. |
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Yet e’en these bones from insult to protect |
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Some frail memorial still erected nigh, |
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With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck’d, |
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Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. |
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Their name, their years, spelt by th’ unletter’d Muse, |
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The place of fame and elegy supply: |
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And many a holy text around she strews, |
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That teach the rustic moralist to die. |
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For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, |
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This pleasing anxious being e’er resign’d, |
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Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, |
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Nor cast one longing lingering look behind? |
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On some fond breast the parting soul relies, |
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Some pious drops the closing eye requires; |
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E’en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, |
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E’en in our ashes live their wonted fires. |
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For thee, who, mindful of th’ unhonour’d dead, |
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Dost in these lines their artless tale relate; |
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If chance, by lonely Contemplation led, |
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Some kindred spirit shall enquire thy fate,— |
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Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, |
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‘Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn |
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Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, |
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To meet the sun upon the upland lawn; |
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‘There at the foot of yonder nodding beech |
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That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, |
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His listless length at noon-tide would he stretch, |
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And pore upon the brook that babbles by. |
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‘Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, |
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Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove; |
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Now drooping, woeful-wan, like one forlorn, |
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Or crazed with care, or cross’d in hopeless love. |
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‘One morn I miss’d him on the custom’d hill, |
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Along the heath, and near his favourite tree; |
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Another came; nor yet beside the rill, |
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Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he; |
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‘The next with dirges due in sad array |
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Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne,— |
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Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay |
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Graved on the stone beneath yon agèd thorn:’ |
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The Epitaph Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth |
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A youth, to Fortune and to Fame unknown; |
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Fair Science frown’d not on his humble birth |
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And Melancholy mark’d him for her own. |
120 |
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Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere; |
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Heaven did a recompense as largely send: |
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He gave to Mis’ry all he had, a tear, |
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He gain’d from Heaven, ’twas all he wish’d, a friend. |
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No farther seek his merits to disclose, |
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Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, |
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(There they alike in trembling hope repose,) |
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The bosom of his Father and his God. |
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