Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's
shade,
Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring
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 lisp their sire's return,
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.
Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has
broke:
How jocund did they drive their team afield!
How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy
stroke.
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