LESSON 17
ELEGY IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD

Thomas Gray, 1716-1771, is often spoken of as “the author of the Elegy, ” —this simple yet highly finished and beautiful poem being by far the best known of all his writings. It was finished in 1749, —seven years from the time it was commenced. Probably no short poem in the language ever deserved or received more praise. Gray was born in London; his father possessed property, but was indolent and selfish; his mother was a successful woman of business, and supported her son in college from her own earnings. The poet was educated at Eton and Cambridge; at the latter place, he resided for several years after his return from a continental tour, begun in 1739. He was small and delicate in person, refined and precise in dress and manners, and shy and retiring in disposition. He was an accomplished scholar in many fields of learning, but left comparatively little finished work in any department. He declined the honor of poet laureate; but, in 1769, was appointed Professor of History at Cambridge.

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,

The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea,

The plowman homeward 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 droning flight,

And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds:

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 moldering heap,

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,

Or busy housewife 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 bowed 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,

And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,

Await alike, the inevitable hour:

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,

If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise;

Wh ere, 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 Honor'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 ecstasy the living lyre:

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page,

Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er 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:

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,

The threats of pain and ruin to despise,

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.

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 learned to stray;

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,

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.

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,

This pleasing, anxious being e'er resigned,

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 unhonored 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 seen him at the peep of dawn

Brushing, with hasty step, the dews away,

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 noontide would he stretch,

And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

“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,

Along the heath, and near his favorite 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 borne: —

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,

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 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.

STUDY GUIDE

A. Vocabulary in context—Answer the following questions which are related to vocabulary in the poem.

1. The first line refers to “parting day”. Parting means leaving, so what time of day do you think it is?

2. A blazing hearth is a fire in a fireplace. It says in stanza six, “For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn”. What does this mean?

3. In stanza fifteen is the line “Some mute, inglorious Milton here may rest”. Inglorious means not famous. In stanza fourteen, it says, “Full many a flower is born to blush unseen”. Blush means to show a very beautiful red or pink colour. How are these two lines similar?

4. Stanza nineteen mentions a “sequestered vale of life”. Sequestered means isolated and far away from others. If someone is sequestered, is he or she likely to become famous? Why or why not?

5. In the first stanza of The Epitaph, it says “And Melancholy marked him for her own”. Melancholy is a thoughtful kind of sadness. What kind of life is a person likely to have if this feeling is common for him?

B. What do you think? Give your opinion in response to the following questions.

1. There are many sad images in this poem. An elegy is a sad song or poem for the dead. A dirge is a poem for the dead that is read at a funeral service. A churchyard is a place where many dead bodies are buried in the ground. How does this poem make you feel?

2. John Milton was one of the greatest poets in the history of English Literature. However, if Milton were mute (deaf and unable to speak), do you think he would have become famous? Explain your answer.

3. At the end of this poem is a section called “The Epitaph”. An epitaph is words written in memory of a person who has died. Why is “The Epitaph” in this poem?

4. Do you think someone can be happy even if they are “.... to fortune and fame unknown”? (not rich or famous).

5. Although this poem is very sad, can you find any happiness in it? Explain your answer.

C. Find the word—Using the clues, find the correct word in the poem.

1. Stanza one—making noises like cattle: l _____

2. Stanza three—very old: a ______

3. Stanza nine—a place where bodies are buried: g ____

4. Stanza ten—a container for ashes: u __

5. Stanza twelve—extreme anger: r ___

6. Stanza sixteen—cheering: a _______

7. Stanza nineteen—very serious: s ____

8. Stanza one of “The Epitaph”—made a serious face: f ______