"How still the morning of the hallow'd day! Mute is the voice of rural labour, hush'd The ploughboy's whistle, and the milkmaid's song. The scythe lies glittering in the dewy wreath Of tedded grass, mingled with fading flowers, That yestermorn bloom'd waving in the breeze: The faintest sounds attract the ear, — the hum Of early bee, the trickling of the dew, The distant bleating, midway up the hill."