Thomas Gray
Elegy Written in a Country Church-yard
The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, | ||
The lowing herd wind slowly oer the lea, | ||
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, | ||
And leaves the world to darkness and to me. | ||
5 | 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 | ||
10 | 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-trees shade, | ||
Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, | ||
15 | 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 cocks shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, | ||
20 | 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 sires return, | ||
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share, | ||
25 | 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, | ||
30 | 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 eer gave, | ||
35 | 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 oer their tomb no trophies raise, | ||
Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault | ||
40 | The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. | |
Can storied urn or animated bust | ||
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? | ||
Can Honours voice provoke the silent dust, | ||
Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of Death? | ||
45 | 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 | ||
50 | Rich with the spoils of time, did neer 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: | ||
55 | 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, | ||
60 | Some Cromwell, guiltless of his countrys blood. | |
The applause of listening senates to command, | ||
The threats of pain and ruin to despise, | ||
To scatter plenty oer a smiling land, | ||
And read their history in a nations eyes, | ||
65 | Their lot forbad: nor circumscribed alone | |
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined; | ||
Forbad to wade through slaughter to a throne, | ||
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind, | ||
The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, | ||
70 | To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, | |
Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride | ||
With incense kindled at the Muses flame. | ||
Far from the madding crowds ignoble strife, | ||
Their sober wishes never learned to stray; | ||
75 | 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, | ||
80 | 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. | ||
85 | For who to dumb Forgetfulness a prey, | |
This pleasing anxious being eer resignd, | ||
Let the warm precincts of the cheerful day, | ||
Nor cast one longing lingering look behind? | ||
On some fond breast the parting soul relies, | ||
90 | 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; | ||
95 | 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, | ||
100 | 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 moontide would he stretch | ||
And pore upon the brook that babbles by. | ||
105 | 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, | ||
110 | 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 churchway path we saw him borne. | ||
115 | 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, | ||
120 | 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 gaind from Heaven, (twas all he wished) a friend. | ||
125 | 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. |
First published 1751
Robert Clark