Elegy Written in a
Country Churchyard
by Thomas Gray
|
| The Curfew tolls the knell of
parting day, |
| The lowing herd wind slowly o'er
the lea, |
| The ploughman 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
tower |
| The moping owl does to the moon
complain |
| Of such as, wandering near her
secret bower, |
Molest her ancient solitary
reign.
|
| Beneath those rugged elms, that
yew-tree's shade, |
| Where heaves the turf in many a
mouldering 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 twittering 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 bowed 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 power, |
| And all that beauty, all that
wealth e'er gave, |
| Awaits alike the 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 Flattery 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 swayed, |
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 repressed their
noble rage, |
And froze the genial current of
the soul.
|
| Full many a gem of purest ray
serene |
| The dark unfathomed 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.
|
| The applause of listening 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 growing 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 learned
to stray; |
| Along the cool sequestered vale
of life |
They kept the noiseless tenor of
their way.
|
| Yet even these bones from insult
to protect |
| Some frail memorial still erected
nigh, |
| With uncouth rhymes and shapeless
sculpture decked, |
Implores the passing tribute of a
sigh.
|
| Their name, their years, spelt by
the unlettered 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
resigned, |
| Left the warm precincts of the
cheerful day, |
Nor cast one longing lingering
look behind?
|
| On some fond breast the parting
soul relies, |
| Some pious drops the closing eye
requires; |
| Even from the tomb the voice of
Nature cries, |
Even in our ashes live their
wonted fires.
|
| For thee who, mindful of the
unhonoured 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, |
| Muttering his wayward fancies he
would rove, |
| Now drooping, woeful wan, like
one forlorn, |
Or crazed with care, or crossed
in hopeless love.
|
| 'One morn I missed him on the
customed hill, |
| Along the heath and near his
favourite 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 frowned not on
his humble birth, |
And Melancholy marked him for
her own.
|
| Large was his bounty and his
soul sincere, |
| Heaven did a recompense as
largely send: |
| He gave to Misery all he had,
a tear, |
He gained from Heaven ('twas
all he wished) 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.
|
| Thomas Gray
| Classic Poems |
| |
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