Each in his narrow cell forever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch A broader browner shade; Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech O'er-canopies the glade, Beside some water's rushy brink With me the Muse shall sit, and think.
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, the rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.