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
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.
Thomas Gray
Thomas Gray (born Dec. 26, 1716, London—died July 30, 1771, Cambridge, Cambridgeshire, Eng.) English poet whose “An Elegy Written in a Country Church Yard” is one of the best known of English lyric poems. Although his literary output was slight, he was the dominant poetic figure in the mid-18th century and a precursor of the Romantic movement.