Short in my duty; coward in my grief! More like her murderer, than friend, I crept, With soft-suspended step, and muffled deep In midnight darkness, whisper'd my last sigh. I whisper'd what should echo thro' their realms; Nor writ her name, whose tomb should pierce the skies. Presumptuous fear! How durst I dread her foes, While nature's loudest dictates I obey'd? Pardon necessity, blest shade! Of grief And indignation rival bursts I pour'd; Half execration mingled with my prayer; Kindled at man, while I his God ador'd; Sore grudg'd the savage land her sacred dust; Stampt the curst soil; and with humanity, Deny'd Narcissa, wish'd them all a grave.
J'y traînai cet horrible et précieux fardeau; Et, comme un meurtrier plutôt que comme un père, Je rendis, en tremblant, sa dépouille à la terre. Lâche dans ma douleur, ma voix, en sons plaintifs, Murmura sourdement quelques adieux furtifs. Ma main n'osa graver son nom.... Ombre trop chère, Hélas! à ma douleur pardonne ma colère! Mon indignation, dans ce terrible adieu, Exécra les mortels dont j'adore le Dieu, Et desira pour eux, avec plus de justice, La tombe qu'ils avaient refusée à Narcisse.
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; Du 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 poór.
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,
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