. Home school of American literature: . y oer the lea,The ploughman homeward plods his wearyway,And leaves the world to darkness and to me. Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds; Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower,The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such as, wandering near her secret her ancient solitary reign. 572 tHOMAS GRAY. 573 Beneath those rugged ehiis, that yew-trees shade,Where heaves the turf in many a moulderingheap
. Home school of American literature: . y oer the lea,The ploughman homeward plods his wearyway,And leaves the world to darkness and to me. Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds; Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower,The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such as, wandering near her secret her ancient solitary reign. 572 tHOMAS GRAY. 573 Beneath those rugged ehiis, that yew-trees shade,Where heaves the turf in many a moulderingheap, Each in his narrow cell for ever rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn, The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed. Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke i How jocund did they drive their team afield !How bowd the woods beneath their sturdystroke ! Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,Their homely joys, and destiny obscure ;. Grays Monument in the Churchyard at Stoke Pogis. The cocks shrill clarion, or the eclioing 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 sires return,Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smileThe short and simple annals of the poor. The boast of Heraldry, the pomp of Power, And all that Beauty, all that Wealth eer gave. Await alike th inevitable hour. The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 574 THOMAS CRAY. Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,If Memory oer their tomb no trophies raise, Where through the long-drawn aisle and frettedvaultThe pealing anthem swells the note of praise. Can storied urn, or animated bust, Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath ?Can Honors voice provoke the silent dust. Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of death? Perhaps in this neglec
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Keywords: ., bo, bookcentury1800, bookdecade1890, booksubjectenglishliterature
