ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD.

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 Hist'ry in a Nation's Eyes,

Their Lot forbade nor circumscribed alone
Their growing Virtues, but their Crimes confin'd;

Forbade to wade thro' Slaughter to a Throne,
Or 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.

ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD.

Far from the madding Crowd's ignoble Strife,
Their sober Wishes never learn'd to stray;
Along the cool sequester'd Vale of Life
They kept the noiseless Tenor of their Way.

Yet ev'n these Bones from Insult to protect
Some frail Memorial still erected nigh,

With uncouth Rhymes and shapeless Sculpture deck'd,
Implores the passing Tribute of a Sigh.

ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD.

Their Name, their Years spelt by th' unletter'd Muse, The Place of Fame and Epitaph 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 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;
Ev'n from the Tomb the Voice of Nature cries,
Ev'n in our Ashes live their wonted Fires.

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 enquire 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,
Muttering his wayward Fancies, would he rove;
Now drooping woful-wan, like one forlorn,

Or craz'd with Care, or cross'd in hopeless Love.

ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD.

One Morn I missed him from 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 Churchway Path we saw him borne: Approach and read, for thou canst read, the Lay Graved on the Stone beneath yon aged Thorn."

ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD.

ЕРІТАРН.

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 Son 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.

Thomas Gray.