ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD THE curfew tolls the knell of parting day, Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. 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, 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: Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye proud! impute to these the fault, THOMAS GRAY. 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 ecstacy the living lyre. But knowledge to their eyes her ample page, 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; Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast Th' applause of listening senates to command, 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, Or shut the gates of mercy on mankind, ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, With incense, kindled at the Muse's flame. Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. Yet even these bones from insult to protect With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked, Their name, their years spelt by th' unlettered Muse, And many a holy text around she strews, For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing anxious being e'er resigned, On some fond breast the parting soul relies, For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonoured dead, If chance, by lonely contemplation led, Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate; Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, THOMAS GRAY. Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech, Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love. One morn I missed him from th' accustomed hill, 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: Approach and read, for thou canst read, the lay Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." EPITAPH. HERE rests his head upon the lap of earth Heaven did a recompense as largely send; 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. |