Elegy Written in A Country Churchyard
by
Thomas Gray
(Poem)
Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard
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 forever 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.
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