ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. CHURCHYAR THOMAS GRAY. HE curfew tolls the knell of parting day, Now fades the glimmering landscape on the And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower, The moping owl does to the moon complain Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's Where heaves the turf in many a moldering Each in his narrow cell forever 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, 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 power, The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye Proud! impute to these the fault, The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. Can storied urn or animated bust Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. 57 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 waked to ecstasy the living lyre. But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page, 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 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. The 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 alon The struggling pangs of conscious Truth to hide Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride 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 e'en these bones, from insult to protect, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. Their name, their years, spelt by the unletter'd Muse, The place of fame and elegy supply, And many a holy text around she strews, 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, lingering look behind? On some fond breast the parting soul relies, Some pious drops the closing eye requires; E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. For thee, who, mindful of the unhonor'd dead, If chance, by lonely Contemplation lead, 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. |