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E L E G Y.
WR ITT EN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-Y ARD.

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd wind slowly o’er the lea,
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

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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. .

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Their lot forbade; nor circumscrib’d alone
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd.
Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind.

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