"ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD"
1The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
2The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea,
3The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
4And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
5Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
6And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
7Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
8And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;
9Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower
10The moping owl does to the moon complain
11Of such, as wandering near her secret bower,
12Molest her ancient solitary reign.
13Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,
14Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap,
15Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
16The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
17The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,
18The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed,
19The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
20No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.
21For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
22Or busy housewife ply her evening care:
23No children run to lisp their sire's return,
24Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.
25Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,
26Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke;
27How jocund did they drive their team afield!
28How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!
29Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
30Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
31Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile,
32The short and simple annals of the poor.
33The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
34And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
35Awaits alike the inevitable hour.
36The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
37Nor you, ye Proud, impute to these the fault,
38If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise,
39Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault
40The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.
41Can storied urn or animated bust
42Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
43Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust,
44Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of Death?
45Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid
46Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;
47Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed,
48Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.
49But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page
50Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll;
51Chill Penury repressed their noble rage,
52And froze the genial current of the soul.
53Full many a gem of purest ray serene,
54The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear:
55Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
56And waste its sweetness on the desert air.
57Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast
58The little tyrant of his fields withstood;
59Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,
60Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood.
61The applause of listening senates to command,
62The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
63To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,
64And read their history in a nation's eyes,
65Their lot forbade: nor circumscribed alone
66Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined;
67Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,
68And shut the gates of mercy on mankind,
69The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,
70To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,
71Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride
72With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.
73Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,
74Their sober wishes never learned to stray;
75Along the cool sequestered vale of life
76They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.
77Yet even these bones from insult to protect
78Some frail memorial still erected nigh,
79With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked,
80Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
81Their name, their years, spelt by the unlettered muse,
82The place of fame and elegy supply:
83And many a holy text around she strews,
84That teach the rustic moralist to die.
85For who to dumb Forgetfulness a prey,
86This pleasing anxious being e'er resigned,
87Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
88Nor cast one longing lingering look behind?
89On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
90Some pious drops the closing eye requires;
91Ev'n from the tomb the voice of nature cries,
92Ev'n in our ashes live their wonted fires.
93For thee, who mindful of the unhonoured dead
94Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;
95If chance, by lonely Contemplation led,
96Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,
97Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,
98'Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn
99'Brushing with hasty steps the dews away
100'To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.
101'There at the foot of yonder nodding beech
102'That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,
103'His listless length at noontide would he stretch,
104'And pore upon the brook that babbles by.
105'Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,
106'Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove,
107'Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn,
108'Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love.
109'One morn I missed him on the customed hill,
110'Along the heath and near his favourite tree;
111'Another came; nor yet beside the rill,
112'Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;
113'The next with dirges due in sad array
114'Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne.
115'Approach and read (for thou can'st read) the lay,
116'Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.'
