THE curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea,
The plowman homeward plods his weary way,
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, wand'ring near her secret bower,
Molest her ancient solitary reign.
Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,
Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap,
LE jour tombe, la cloche annonce qu'il expire;
repos, du sommeil, tout va suivre la loi;
Tout le peuple des champs au hameau se retire,
Et livre l'univers aux ténèbres, à moi.
L'horizon disparaît, il s'efface; la terre,
Dans son calme profond, semble un vaste tombeau;
Tout se tait, excepté l'insecte solitaire,
Dont le bourdonnement assoupit le hameau.
Tout se tait, excepté sous les mornes décombres,
Sous les murs délabrés de cette antique tour,
Où le triste hibou semble se plaindre aux ombres
Qu'un mortel ait troublé son lugubre séjour.
Sous l'ombrage flétri des saules et des hêtres
J'arrive dans un champ noirci par un long deuil;
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!
Let not ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile,
The short and simple annals of the poor.
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Await alike th' inevitable hour:
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,
If mem'ry o'er their tomb no trophies raise,
C'est là du hameau sont couchés les ancêtres,
Là, chacun dort serré dans son étroit cercueil.
Le souffle parfumé de l'aurore naissante,
Les cris de mille oiseaux dans les airs répandus,
Et du coq vigilant la trompette bruyante
De ce dernier sommeil ne les réveillent plus.
Non, ils ne verront plus l'active ménagère
Préparer, au matin, leur modeste repas;
Et, le soir, leurs enfans, troupe aimable et légère,
Disputer leurs baisers en volant dans leurs bras.
Souvent, souvent leurs bras, dans ces fertiles plaines, Ont tracé lentement de pénibles sillons;
Souvent aussi leurs mains, de ces riches domaines
Ont gaîment, dans un char, emmené les moissons.
N'allez pas, grands du monde et vous riches des villes,
Dédaigner leur bonheur et leur obscurité :
Leurs plaisirs étaient vrais, et leurs travaux utiles;
Les annales du pauvre ont aussi leur beauté.
La pompe du pouvoir, l'orgueil de la noblesse,
Frappés du même trait, ont tous le même sort ;
Il atteint la beauté, la grandeur, la richesse:
Chaque pas vers la gloire est un pas vers la mort.
Là vous ne verrez point des tombeaux magnifiques
Attester de leurs noms le néant et l'orgueil;
Where, thro' the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault, The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.
Can storied urn, or animated bust,
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
Can honour's voice provoke the silent dust,
Or flatt'ry sooth the dull cold ear of death?
Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;
Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd,
Or wak'd to ecstasy the living lyre.
But knowledge to their eyes her ample page,
Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll;
Chill penury repress'd their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the soul.
Full many a gem of purest ray serene,
The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear;
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.
Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast
The little tyrant of his fields withstood;
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest;
Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood.
Th' applause of list'ning senates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
|