150

ELEGY WRITTEN IN A

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower,
The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of such, as wand'ring near her secret bower,
Moleft her ancient solitary reign.

Beneath thofe rugged elms, that yew-tree's fhade,
Where heaves the turf in many a mouldring heap,
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
The rude Forefathers of the hamlet ſleep.

The breezy call of incenſe breathing Morn,
The ſwallow twitt'ring from the ſtraw-built ſhed,
The cock's ſhrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
No more ſhall rouſe them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth ſhall burn,
Or busy houſewife ply her evening-care;
No children run to lifp their fire's return,
Or climb his knees the envied kifs to ſhare.

Oſt