Elegy written in a Country Churchyard - Thomas Gray
Elegy written in a Country
Churchyard
Thomas Gray. 1716–1771
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 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 Memory o'er their Tomb no Trophies raise,
Where through 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 waked 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 flower 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 history in a nation's eyes,
Their lot forbade: nor circumscribed
alone
Their glowing virtues, but their crimes confined;
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 crazed 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 through the church-way path we saw him borne.
Approach and read (for thou canst read)
the lay
Graved 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.
Churchyard
Thomas Gray. 1716–1771
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 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 Memory o'er their Tomb no Trophies raise,
Where through 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 waked 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 flower 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 history in a nation's eyes,
Their lot forbade: nor circumscribed
alone
Their glowing virtues, but their crimes confined;
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 crazed 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 through the church-way path we saw him borne.
Approach and read (for thou canst read)
the lay
Graved 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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