Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard

2The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,

3The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea.

4The plowman homeward plods his weary way,

5And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

6Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,

7And all the air a solemn stillness holds,

8Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,

9And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds.

10Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r

11The moping owl does to the moon complain

12Of such as, wand'ring near her secret bow'r,

13Molest her ancient solitary reign.

14Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,

15Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap,

16Each in his narrow cell forever laid,

17The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

18The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,

19The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed,

20The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,

21No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

22For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,

23Or busy housewife ply her evening care:

24No children run to lisp their sire's return,

25Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

26Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,

27Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke;

28How jocund did they drive their team afield!

29How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

30Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,

31Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;

32Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile,

33The short and simple annals of the Poor.

34The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r,

35And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,

36Await alike th' inevitable hour.

37The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

38Forgive, ye Proud, th' involuntary fault

39If Memory to these no trophies raise,

40Where thro' the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault

41The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

42Can storied urn or animated bust

43Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?

44Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust,

45Or Flatt'ry soothe the dull cold ear of Death?

46Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid

47Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire,

48Hands that the rod of empire might have sway'd

49Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.

50But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page

51Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll;

52Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage,

53And froze the genial current of the soul.

54Full many a gem of purest ray serene,

55The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear:

56Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,

57And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

58Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast

59The little tyrant of his fields withstood;

60Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,

61Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood.

62Th' applause of list'ning senates to command,

63The threats of pain and ruin to despise,

64To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,

65And read their history in a nation's eyes,

66Their lot forbad: nor circumscribed alone

67Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined

68Forbad to wade through slaughter to a throne,

69And shut the gates of mercy on mankind,

70The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,

71To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,

72Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride

73With incense, kindled at the Muse's flame.

74Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,

75Their sober wishes never learn 'd to stray;

76Along the cool sequester'd vale of life

77They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.

78Yet e'en those bones from insult to protect

79Some frail memorial still erected nigh,

80With uncouth rhimes and shapeless sculpture deck'd,

81Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

82Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd Muse,

83The place of fame and elegy ⟨supply:⟩

84And many a holy text around she strews

85That teach the rustic moralist to die.

86For who to dumb forgetfulness a prey,

87This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd,

88Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,

89Nor cast one longing, ling'ring look behind?

90On some fond breast the parting soul relies,

91Some pious drops the closing eye requires;

92E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,

93E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.

94For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead,

95Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;

96If chance, by lonely Contemplation led,

97Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,

98Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,

99"Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn

100Brushing with hasty steps the dews away,

101To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.

102"There at the foot of yonder nodding beech

103That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,

104His listless length at noon-tide would he stretch,

105And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

106"Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,

107Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove;

108Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn,

109Or crazed with care, or cross'd in hopeless love.

110"One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill,

111Along the heath, and near his favourite tree;

112Another came; nor yet beside the rill,

113Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he.

114"The next with dirges due in sad array

115Slow thro' the church-way path we saw him borne.

116Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay,

117Graved on the stone beneath yon agèd thorn."

118Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth

119A Youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown:

120Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth,

121And Melancholy mark'd him for her own.

122Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,

123Heaven did a recompense as largely send:

124He gave to Mis'ry all he had, a tear:

125He gain'd from Heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) a friend.

126No farther seek his merits to disclose,

127Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,

128The bosom of his Father and his God.