Elegy - Written in a Country Churchyard

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day

The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lee

The ploughman homeward plods his weary way

And leaves the world to darkness

And to me

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the site

And all the air a solemn stillness holds

Save where the beetle wheels his drewning flight

And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds

Save that from yonder isly mantle tower

The moping owl doest to the moon complain

Of such as, wondering near her secret bower

Molest her ancient solitary reign

Beneath those rugged elms that yew tree shade

Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap

Each in his narrow cell forever laid

The rude forefathers of the hamlets

The breezy call of incense breathing morn

The swallow twittering from the strawdirt church

The cock's shrill clarion of the echoing hoard

No more to arouse them from their noble death

For them no more the blazing hearths will burn

Or busy housewifes ply their evening care

No children run to list their sires return

Or climb his knees, the envied kiss to share

Oft' did the harvest to their sick weald

Their furrow oft' a stubborn glebe was broke

How jockened did they drive their team afield

How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke

Let not ambition rock their useful toil

Their homely joys and destiny obscure

Nor grandeur here with a disdainful smile

The short and simple annals of the poor

The boast of heraldry

The pomp of power

And all that beauty

All that wealth 'er-gave

Awakes alike the inevitable hour

The paths of glory lead but to the grave

Nor you 'ere prow

Impute to these the fault of memory

Or their tool no trophies raise

Where through the long drawn aisle

Of threaded vault

The peeling anthem swells a note of praise

The stored urn or animated bust

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath

Can honour's voice provoke the silent dust

Or flattery soothe 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 swayed

Or wake to ecstacy

The living liar

The knowledge to their eyes

Her ample page

Rich with the spoils of time

Did n'er unroll

'Til penury repressed their noble rage

And froze the genial current of the soul

For many a gem of purest ray serene

The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear

For many a flower is born to blush unseen

And wasted sweetness on the desert air

Some village hamlet

But with dauntless breast the little tyrant of his fields

Withstood some mute and glorious pilgrim

Here may rest

Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood

The applause of listening senates to command

The threats of pain and ruin to despise

To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land

And weave their history in a nation's eyes

Their lot forbade

Nor circumscribed alone their growing virtues

But their crimes confide

The mad to wade through slaughter to a throne

And shut the gates of mercy on mankind

The struggling pangs of concious truth to hide

To quench the blushes of ingenious shame

Or heat the shrine of luxury and pride

With incense kindled at the muses' flame

Far from the madding crowds

Ingnoble strife

Their sober wishes never learned to stray

Along the cool sequestered vale of life

They kept the noiseless tenor of their way

Yet in these bones, from insult

To protect some frail memorial

Still erected nigh

With uncouth rhymes

And shapeless sculptured debt

Implores the passing tribute of a sigh

Their name

Their years

Spelt by the unlettered muse

The place of fame and elegy supply

And many a holy text around she strews

That teach the rustic moralist to die

For who, to dumb forgetfulness at pray

This pleasing anxious being 'er resigned

Left the warm precints of the cheerful day

Or cast one longing, lingering look behind

On some fond breast the parting soul relies

Some pious drops the closing eye requires

E'en from the tomb

The voice of nature cries

E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires

To thee, who mindful of the un-honoured dead

Doest in these lines their artless tale relate

If chance, by lonely contemplation led

To some kindred spirit, should enquire thy fate

Happily some hoary headed swain may say

Oft' we've seen him at the peep of dawn

Brushing with hasty steps the dews away

To meet the sun upon the aplen lawn

There at the foot of yonder nodding beach

That weaves its old fantastic route so high

Its listless lenght at moontide

Would he stretch

And pour upon the brook that babbles by

Hard by yon wood

Now smiling at him scorn

Muttering his wayward fancys he would roam

Now drooping

Would for one

Like one forlorn

Or crazed with care

Or crossed in hopeless love

One morn' I missed him on the 'customed hill

Along the heath

And near his favourite tree

Another came

Nor yet beside the rill

Nor up the lawn

Nor at the wood was he

The next

Its dirges due in sad array

Slow through the churchway path

We saw him borne

Approach and read

For thou canst read

The ley graved on the stone

Beneath yon aged thorn

Here rests his head

Upon the lap of earth

The youth to fortune and to fame unknown

Fair science frowned not on his humble birth

And melancholy marked him for her own

Large was his bounty

And his soul sincere

Heaven did a recompense as largely send

He gave to misery all he had

A tear, he gained from heaven

T'was all he wished

A friend

No father 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