Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard by Thomas Gray (Poem & Summary & Analysis)

 

Elegy Written in a

Country Churchyard

by Thomas Gray

(Poem & Summary & Analysis)

  

The poem, “Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard”, speaks of ordinary people. It is an elegy for poor villagers. They are not famous but they are honest. So, the poet has written this poem to honor them. The poem talks about death as an equalizer. Rich or poor should end in death. Moreover, no man can escape death. In death, all are equal. Besides, nothing including any amount of rich or glory can bring the dead to life. Even poor people deserve respect for their death. Given opportunities, they would have become great men in their times.

 Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard

(The Poem)

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 glimm'ring 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 tow'r

The moping owl does to the moon complain

Of such, as wand'ring near her secret bow'r,

Molest her ancient solitary reign.

 

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,

Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap,

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 poor.

 

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r,

And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,

Awaits 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,

Where thro' the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault

The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

 

Can storied urn or animated bust

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?

Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust,

Or Flatt'ry soothe the dull cold ear of Death?

 

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid

Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;

Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd,

Or wak'd to ecstasy the living lyre.

 

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page

Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll;

Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage,

And froze the genial current of the soul.

 

Full many a gem of purest ray serene,

The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear:

Full many a flow'r is born to blush unseen,

And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

 

Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast

The little tyrant of his fields withstood;

Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,

Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood.

 

Th' applause of list'ning senates to command,

The threats of pain and ruin to despise,

To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,

And read their hist'ry in a nation's eyes,

 

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,

 

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,

To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,

Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride

With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.

 

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.

 

Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect,

Some frail memorial still erected nigh,

With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd,

Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

 

Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd muse,

The place of fame and elegy supply:

And many a holy text around she strews,

That teach the rustic moralist to die.

 

For who to dumb Forgetfulness a prey,

This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd,

Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,

Nor cast one longing, ling'ring look behind?

 

On some fond breast the parting soul relies,

Some pious drops the closing eye requires;

Ev'n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,

Ev'n in our ashes live their wonted fires.

 

For thee, who mindful of th' unhonour'd Dead

Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;

If chance, by lonely contemplation led,

Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,

 

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,

"Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn

Brushing with hasty steps the dews away

To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.

 

"There at the foot of yonder nodding beech

That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,

His listless length at noontide would he stretch,

And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

 

"Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,

Mutt'ring his wayward fancies he would rove,

Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn,

Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless love.

 

"One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill,

Along the heath and near his fav'rite tree;

Another came; nor yet beside the rill,

Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;

 

"The next with dirges due in sad array

Slow thro' the church-way path we saw him borne.

Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay,

Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn."

THE EPITAPH

Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth

A youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown.

Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth,

And Melancholy mark'd him for her own.

 

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,

Heav'n did a recompense as largely send:

He gave to Mis'ry all he had, a tear,

He gain'd from Heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) a friend.

 

No farther seek his merits to disclose,

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,

(There they alike in trembling hope repose)

The bosom of his Father and his God.

The poem begins by describing the approach of evening with its darkness and its silence, which is extreme except for some such sounds, as those of the droning of the beetle, the tinkling of sheep’s bells and the hooting of the owl. This darkness and silence are conducive to mournful thoughts.

Then it proceeds to speak of the poor people – the ancestors of the rustic population of the village, who lay deep buried under the trees of elm and the yew, in the country churchyard.

The poet says, nothing can wake them from their everlasting sleep. They can no longer enjoy the family gathering round the fireplace, when they returned home after the day’s work. These poor villagers did their humble work of cultivation.

The poet, then, requests the big and the great people not to despise these poor peasants for their humble but useful work. He also requests them not to blame the poor peasants for having no monuments erected over their graves, because monuments, tombstones, statues, honors, tributes are helpless to recall the dead back to life.

Speaking of these peasants, the poet says, that some of these poor peasants could have been great rulers or statesmen, famous musicians or poets, if they had not been ignorant and poor. They had potential greatness, for beautiful pearls lie at the bottom of the sea, unseen in the wilderness.

This country churchyard may contain the grave of one who could become a popular hero, like Hampden or an immortal poet, like Milton or a military genius, like Cromwell, but their humble lot denied them a chance of becoming great orators or great martyrs or great benefactors of their country. The poet says, that their humble lot had not only prevented the development of their virtues, but, had limited the nature and extent of their vices as well, so that they were saved from becoming bloody usurpers or merciless tyrants. Their lot had saved them from showing a disregard of truth and honesty and from becoming flatterers of the great.

These gravestones of the poor show, that their desire, to be remembered after death is a desire common to all men. After Gray’s death too, some people will talk of him, some may be curious, even to visit his grave and to read the epitaph on his tomb.

The setting time is evening and every living being on earth is retiring for the night. As the poem opens, the speaker is seen at the churchyard; he hears the usual evening sounds. The church bell is ringing. The shepherds and their cattle are returning home after the day’s work. The location is rural. The atmosphere is melancholic. Darkness and silence fill the place except for the hooting of the owl, the buzz of the beetle, and the ringing of the bells. Regardless of all this gloom, the speaker stands in the middle of tombstones in the graveyard. And while there, he imagines the lives of the dead people who silently sleep there.

The poem “Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard” consists of 33 stanzas. Each stanza has four lines. As an elegy, this poem mourns the death of ordinary men. In this poem, Gray talks about the death and the lives of the poor people, the poem follows all the conventions of the elegiac tradition.

 “Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard” has heroic quatrains as stanzas. Four lines with iambic pentameter constitute each stanza. A pentameter consists of ten syllables. Also, the first and the third lines rhyme at the ending; the second and the fourth line rhyme at the ending of each stanza. The rhyming scheme is abab, cdcd, efef, … The poem follows the conventions of an elegy. There is a pastoral setting; however, there are no pastoral characters. The poem ends in the poet’s own epitaph. In addition to its great content, the poem has beautifully executed figures of speech in the stanza that talks about ‘hidden gems’ and ‘desert flowers’.