The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd winds slowly oer the lea,1 The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of powr, And all that beauty, all that wealth eer gave, Await alike the inevitable hour. The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
Can storied urn, or animated bust, Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can honours voice provoke the silent dust, Or flattry soothe the dull cold ear of death?
But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page, Rich with the spoils of time, did neer unroll;2 Chill penury repressd their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.
Elegy in a Country Churchyard. Stanza 13.
Note 1. The first edition reads, The lowing herds wind slowly oer the lea. [back]