An
ELEGY
WRITTEN
IN
A
COUNTRY
CHURCH
YARD
.
By
Mr.
GRAY
.
THE
curfew
tolls
the
knell
of
parting
day
,
The
lowing
herd
wind
slowly
o'er
the
lea
,
The
plowman
homewards
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
drony
flight
,
And
drowsy
tinklings
lull
the
distant
folds
;
Save
that
from
yonder
ivy-mantled
tow'r
The
mopeing
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
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
houswife
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
,
Await
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
isle
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
sooth
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
extasy
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
desart
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
forbad
:
nor
circumscrib'd
alone
Their
growing
virtues
,
but
their
crimes
confin'd
;
Forbad
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
rhimes
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
dye
.
For
who
to
dumb
Forgetfulness
a
prey
,
This
pleasing
anxious
being
e'er
resign'd
,
Left
the
warm
precincts
of
the
chearful
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
see
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
fantastick
roots
so
high
,
'
His
listless
length
at
noon-tide
wou'd
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
wou'd
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
through
the
church-way
path
we
saw
him
born
,
'
Approach
and
read
(
for
thou
can'st
read
)
the
lay
,
'
Grav'd
on
the
stone
beneath
you
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
recompence
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
.