THE PARISH CHURCH.

BENEATH THOSE RUGGED ELMS, THAT YEW-TREES'S SHADE,

WHERE HEAVES THE TURF IN MANY A MOULD'RING HEAP,

EACH IN HIS NARROW CELL FOREVER 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 GREET THEIR SIRE'S RETURN,

OR CLIMB HIS KNEES THE ENVIED KISS TO SHARE.

THE BOAST OF HERALDRY, THE POMP OF POW'R,

AND ALL THAT BEAUTY, ALL THAT WEALTH E'ER GAVE,

AWAIT ALIKE TH' INEVITABLE HOUR:

THE PATHS OF GLORY LEAD BUT TO THE GRAVE.