Elegy - A Poem

Elegy - Written in a Country Churchyard by Thomas Gray.

I am sharing poem that I remember from my childhood...

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
    The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea,
The ploughman 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 tow'r
    The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of such as, wand'ring near her secret bow'r,
    Molest her ancient solitary reign.^[34]

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.

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 history in a nation's eyes,

Their lot forbade: nor circumscrib'd alone
    Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined;
Forbade to wade thro' 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.

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 seen 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 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,
    Mutt'ring his wayward fancies he would 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 borne:—
Approach and read (for thou can'st read) the lay
    Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.

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,
    Heaven did a recompense 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.

The thoughtless world to majesty may bow,
    Exalt the brave, and idolize success;
But more to innocence their safety owe,
    Than pow'r or genius e'er conspir'd to bless

And thou who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead
    Dost in these notes their artless tale relate,
By night and lonely contemplation led
    To wander in the gloomy walks of fate:

Hark! how the sacred calm, that breathes around,
    Bids every fierce tumultuous passion cease;
In still small accents whisp'ring from the ground,
    A grateful earnest of eternal peace.

No more, with reason and thyself at strife,
    Give anxious cares and endless wishes room;
But through the cool sequester'd vale of life.

Pursue the silent tenour of thy doom.