Each in his narrow cell forever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate, Beneath the good how far,-but far above the great.
The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
Scatter plenty o'er a smiling land.
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray; Along the cool sequester'd vale of life They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.