ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY
CHURCH-YARD.
HE curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd winds flowly o'er the lea, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
Now fades the glimmering landfcape on the fight,
And all the air a folemn ftillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his drony flight,
And drowfy tinklings lull the diftant folds;
Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r,
The mopeing owl does to the moon complain
Of fuch, as wand'ring near her fecret bow'r,
Moleft her ancient folitary reign.
Beneath thofe rugged elms, that yew-tree's fhade,
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 incenfe-breathing Morn,
The swallow twitt'ring from the ftraw-built fhed,
The cock's fhrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
No more fhall rouse them from their lowly bed.
For them no more the blazing hearth fhall burn.
Or bufy housewife ply her evening care:
No children run to lifp their fire's return,
Or climb his knees the envied kifs to fhare.
Oft did the harvest to their fickle 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 notambition mock their ufeful toil,
Their homely joys, and deftiny obfcure;
Nor grandeur hear with a difdainful fmile,
The short and fimple 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 ifle, and fretted vault,
The pealing anthem fwells the note of praise.
Can ftoried urn, or animated buft,
Back to its manfion call the fleeting breath?
Can Honour's voice provoke the filent dust,
Or flatt'ry foothe 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 ecftacy the living lyre.
But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page
Rich with the fpoils of Time did ne'er unroll;
Chill Penury reprefs'd their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the foul.
Full many a gem of pureft ray ferene
The dark unfathom'd caves of Ocean bear:
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And wafte its sweetness on the defert air.
Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breaft
The little tyrant of his fields withstood;
Some mute inglorious Milton here may reft,
Some Cromwell guiltlefs of his country's blood.
Th' applaufe of lift'ping fenates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to defpife,
To fcatter plenty o'er a fmiling land,
And read their history in a nation's eyes,
Their lot forbade: nor circumfcrib'd alone
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd;
Forbade to wade through flaughter to a throne,
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind ;
The ftrugglings pangs of confcicus Truth to hide,
To quench the blushes of ingenuous Shame,
Or heap the fhrine of Luxury and Pride
With incenfe kindled at the Mufe's flame.
Far from the madding crowd's ignoble ftrife,
Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray;
Along the cool fequefter'd vale of life
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.
Yet ev❜n these bones from infult to protect,
Some frail memorial ftill erected nigh,
With uncouth rhimes and shapeless sculpture deck'd,
Implores the paffing tribute of a figh.
Their name, their years, fpelt by th' unletter'd Muse,
The place of fame and elegy fupply;
And many a holy text around fhe ftrews,
That teach the ruftic moralift to die.
For who to dumb Forgetfulness a prey,
This pleafing anxious being e'er refign'd,
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
Nor caft one longing ling'ring look behind?
On fome fond breast the parting foul relies,
Some pious drops the clofing eye requires;
Even from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,
Ev'n in our afhes live their wonted fires.
For thee, who mindful of th' unhonour'd Dead
Doft in these lines their artless tale relate;
If chance, by lonely Contemplation led,
Some kindred Spirit fhall inquire thy fate,
Haply fome hoary-headed fwain may fay,
• Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn,
Brushing with hafty fteps the dew away
To meet the fun upon the upland lawn.
There at the foot of yonder nodding beech,
• That wreathes its old fantastic roots fo high,
His liftlefs length at noontide would he stretch,
And pore upon the brook that bubbles by.
Hard by yon wood, now fmiling, as in fcorn,
Mutt'ring his wayward fancies he would rove,
Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn,
• Or craz'd with care, or crofs'd in hopeless love,
• One morn I mifs'd him on the custom'd hill,
Along the heath, and near his favourite tree;
• Another came; nor yet befide the rill,
Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he:
• The next with dirges due in fad array
Slow through the church-way path we faw him bome. Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay, • Grav'd on the ftone, beneath yon aged thorn.'
HERE refs 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 foul fincere,
Heav'n did a recompence as largely fend:
to Misry all he had, a tear,
He gain'd from Heav'n ('twas all he wish’d) a friend.
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