{"id":264,"date":"2015-06-29T21:20:19","date_gmt":"2015-06-29T21:20:19","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/courses.candelalearning.com\/americanlit1x22x1\/?post_type=chapter&p=264"},"modified":"2015-06-29T21:20:19","modified_gmt":"2015-06-29T21:20:19","slug":"elegy-written-in-a-country-churchyard","status":"web-only","type":"chapter","link":"https:\/\/courses.lumenlearning.com\/suny-britlit1\/chapter\/elegy-written-in-a-country-churchyard\/","title":{"raw":"Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard","rendered":"Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard"},"content":{"raw":"by Thomas Gray<\/strong>\r\n\r\nThe curfew tolls the knell of parting day,\r\nThe lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea,\r\nThe plowman homeward plods his weary way,\r\nAnd leaves the world to darkness and to me.\r\n\r\nNow fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,\r\nAnd all the air a solemn stillness holds,\r\nSave where the beetle wheels his droning flight,\r\nAnd drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds:\r\n\r\nSave that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower,\r\nThe moping owl does to the moon complain\r\nOf such as, wandering near her secret bower,\r\nMolest her ancient solitary reign.\r\n\r\nBeneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,\r\nWhere heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap,\r\nEach in his narrow cell forever laid,\r\nThe rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.\r\n\r\nThe breezy call of incense-breathing morn,\r\nThe swallow twittering from the straw-built shed,\r\nThe cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,\r\nNo more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.\r\n\r\nFor them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,\r\nOr busy housewife ply her evening care;\r\nNo children run to lisp their sire's return,\r\nOr climb his knees the envied kiss to share.\r\n\r\nOft did the harvest to their sickle yield,\r\nTheir furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke;\r\nHow jocund did they drive their team afield!\r\nHow bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!\r\n\r\nLet not Ambition mock their useful toil,\r\nTheir homely joys, and destiny obscure;\r\nNor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile\r\nThe short and simple annals of the poor.\r\n\r\nThe boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,\r\nAnd all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,\r\nAwaits alike th' inevitable hour.\r\nThe paths of glory lead but to the grave.\r\n\r\nNor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,\r\nIf Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise;\r\nWhere, through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault,\r\nThe pealing anthem swells the note of praise.\r\n\r\nCan storied urn or animated bust\r\nBack to its mansion call the fleeting breath?\r\nCan Honour's voice provoke the silent dust?\r\nOr Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of Death?\r\n\r\nPerhaps in this neglected spot is laid\r\nSome heart once pregnant with celestial fire;\r\nHands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd,\r\nOr wak'd to ecstasy the living lyre:\r\n\r\nBut Knowledge to their eyes her ample page,\r\nRich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll;\r\nChill Penury repress'd their noble rage,\r\nAnd froze the genial current of the soul.\r\n\r\nFull many a gem of purest ray serene\r\nThe dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear;\r\nFull many a flower is born to blush unseen,\r\nAnd waste its sweetness on the desert air.\r\n\r\nSome village Hampden, that with dauntless breast\r\nThe little tyrant of his fields withstood,\r\nSome mute inglorious Milton here may rest,\r\nSome Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood.\r\n\r\nTh' applause of listening senates to command,\r\nThe threats of pain and ruin to despise,\r\nTo scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,\r\nAnd read their history in a nation's eyes,\r\n\r\nTheir lot forbade: nor circumscrib'd alone\r\nTheir growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd;\r\nForbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,\r\nAnd shut the gates of mercy on mankind,\r\n\r\nThe struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,\r\nTo quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,\r\nOr heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride\r\nWith incense kindled at the Muse's flame.\r\n\r\nFar from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,\r\nTheir sober wishes never learn'd to stray;\r\nAlong the cool sequester'd vale of life\r\nThey kept the noiseless tenor of their way.\r\n\r\nYet even these bones from insult to protect,\r\nSome frail memorial still erected nigh,\r\nWith uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd,\r\nImplores the passing tribute of a sigh.\r\n\r\nTheir name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd Muse,\r\nThe place of fame and elegy supply;\r\nAnd many a holy text around she strews,\r\nThat teach the rustic moralist to die.\r\n\r\nFor who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,\r\nThis pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd,\r\nLeft the warm precincts of the cheerful day,\r\nNor cast one longing lingering look behind?\r\n\r\nOn some fond breast the parting soul relies,\r\nSome pious drops the closing eye requires;\r\nEven from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,\r\nEven in our ashes live their wonted fires.\r\n\r\nFor thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead,\r\nDost in these lines their artless tale relate,\r\nIf chance, by lonely contemplation led,\r\nSome kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,\r\n\r\nHaply some hoary-headed swain may say,\r\n\"Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn\r\nBrushing with hasty steps the dews away,\r\nTo meet the sun upon the upland lawn.\r\n\r\n\"There at the foot of yonder nodding beech,\r\nThat wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,\r\nHis listless length at noontide would he stretch,\r\nAnd pore upon the brook that babbles by.\r\n\r\n\"Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,\r\nMuttering his wayward fancies he would rove;\r\nNow drooping, woeful-wan, like one forlorn,\r\nOr craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless love.\r\n\r\n\"One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill,\r\nAlong the heath, and near his favourite tree;\r\nAnother came; nor yet beside the rill,\r\nNor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;\r\n\r\n\"The next, with dirges due in sad array,\r\nSlow through the church-way path we saw him borne.\r\nApproach and read (for thou canst read) the lay\r\nGrav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.\"\r\n\r\n
<\/center>
THE EPITAPH.<\/center>\r\nHere rests his head upon the lap of Earth\r\nA youth, to Fortune and to Fame unknown;\r\nFair Science frown'd not on his humble birth,\r\nAnd Melancholy mark'd him for her own.\r\n\r\nLarge was his bounty, and his soul sincere,\r\nHeaven did a recompense as largely send;\r\nHe gave to Misery all he had, a tear;\r\nHe gain'd from Heaven ('twas all he wish'd) a friend.\r\n\r\nNo farther seek his merits to disclose,\r\nOr draw his frailties from their dread abode,\r\n(There they alike in trembling hope repose)\r\nThe bosom of his Father and his God.","rendered":"

by Thomas Gray<\/strong><\/p>\n

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
\nThe lowing herd wind slowly o’er the lea,
\nThe plowman homeward plods his weary way,
\nAnd leaves the world to darkness and to me.<\/p>\n

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
\nAnd all the air a solemn stillness holds,
\nSave where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
\nAnd drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds:<\/p>\n

Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower,
\nThe moping owl does to the moon complain
\nOf such as, wandering near her secret bower,
\nMolest her ancient solitary reign.<\/p>\n

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree’s shade,
\nWhere heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap,
\nEach in his narrow cell forever laid,
\nThe rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.<\/p>\n

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,
\nThe swallow twittering from the straw-built shed,
\nThe cock’s shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
\nNo more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.<\/p>\n

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
\nOr busy housewife ply her evening care;
\nNo children run to lisp their sire’s return,
\nOr climb his knees the envied kiss to share.<\/p>\n

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,
\nTheir furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke;
\nHow jocund did they drive their team afield!
\nHow bow’d the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!<\/p>\n

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
\nTheir homely joys, and destiny obscure;
\nNor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile
\nThe short and simple annals of the poor.<\/p>\n

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
\nAnd all that beauty, all that wealth e’er gave,
\nAwaits alike th’ inevitable hour.
\nThe paths of glory lead but to the grave.<\/p>\n

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,
\nIf Memory o’er their tomb no trophies raise;
\nWhere, through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault,
\nThe pealing anthem swells the note of praise.<\/p>\n

Can storied urn or animated bust
\nBack to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
\nCan Honour’s voice provoke the silent dust?
\nOr Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of Death?<\/p>\n

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid
\nSome heart once pregnant with celestial fire;
\nHands, that the rod of empire might have sway’d,
\nOr wak’d to ecstasy the living lyre:<\/p>\n

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page,
\nRich with the spoils of time, did ne’er unroll;
\nChill Penury repress’d their noble rage,
\nAnd froze the genial current of the soul.<\/p>\n

Full many a gem of purest ray serene
\nThe dark unfathom’d caves of ocean bear;
\nFull many a flower is born to blush unseen,
\nAnd waste its sweetness on the desert air.<\/p>\n

Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast
\nThe little tyrant of his fields withstood,
\nSome mute inglorious Milton here may rest,
\nSome Cromwell, guiltless of his country’s blood.<\/p>\n

Th’ applause of listening senates to command,
\nThe threats of pain and ruin to despise,
\nTo scatter plenty o’er a smiling land,
\nAnd read their history in a nation’s eyes,<\/p>\n

Their lot forbade: nor circumscrib’d alone
\nTheir growing virtues, but their crimes confin’d;
\nForbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,
\nAnd shut the gates of mercy on mankind,<\/p>\n

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,
\nTo quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,
\nOr heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride
\nWith incense kindled at the Muse’s flame.<\/p>\n

Far from the madding crowd’s ignoble strife,
\nTheir sober wishes never learn’d to stray;
\nAlong the cool sequester’d vale of life
\nThey kept the noiseless tenor of their way.<\/p>\n

Yet even these bones from insult to protect,
\nSome frail memorial still erected nigh,
\nWith uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck’d,
\nImplores the passing tribute of a sigh.<\/p>\n

Their name, their years, spelt by th’ unletter’d Muse,
\nThe place of fame and elegy supply;
\nAnd many a holy text around she strews,
\nThat teach the rustic moralist to die.<\/p>\n

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,
\nThis pleasing anxious being e’er resign’d,
\nLeft the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
\nNor cast one longing lingering look behind?<\/p>\n

On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
\nSome pious drops the closing eye requires;
\nEven from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,
\nEven in our ashes live their wonted fires.<\/p>\n

For thee, who, mindful of th’ unhonour’d dead,
\nDost in these lines their artless tale relate,
\nIf chance, by lonely contemplation led,
\nSome kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,<\/p>\n

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,
\n“Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn
\nBrushing with hasty steps the dews away,
\nTo meet the sun upon the upland lawn.<\/p>\n

“There at the foot of yonder nodding beech,
\nThat wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,
\nHis listless length at noontide would he stretch,
\nAnd pore upon the brook that babbles by.<\/p>\n

“Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,
\nMuttering his wayward fancies he would rove;
\nNow drooping, woeful-wan, like one forlorn,
\nOr craz’d with care, or cross’d in hopeless love.<\/p>\n

“One morn I miss’d him on the custom’d hill,
\nAlong the heath, and near his favourite tree;
\nAnother came; nor yet beside the rill,
\nNor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;<\/p>\n

“The next, with dirges due in sad array,
\nSlow through the church-way path we saw him borne.
\nApproach and read (for thou canst read) the lay
\nGrav’d on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.”<\/p>\n

<\/div>\n
THE EPITAPH.<\/div>\n

Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth
\nA youth, to Fortune and to Fame unknown;
\nFair Science frown’d not on his humble birth,
\nAnd Melancholy mark’d him for her own.<\/p>\n

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,
\nHeaven did a recompense as largely send;
\nHe gave to Misery all he had, a tear;
\nHe gain’d from Heaven (’twas all he wish’d) a friend.<\/p>\n

No farther seek his merits to disclose,
\nOr draw his frailties from their dread abode,
\n(There they alike in trembling hope repose)
\nThe bosom of his Father and his God.<\/p>\n\n\t\t\t

\n\t\t\t

Candela Citations<\/h3>\n\t\t\t\t\t
\n\t\t\t\t\t\t
\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t
Public domain content<\/div>