Elegy
Written in a Country Churchyard
BY THOMAS GRAY
Introduction:
Thomas Gray is an 18th Century poet who is famous for his work "Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard". He was born in London on 26 December 1716. He was a professor at Pembroke College, Cambridge. He was one of the notable poetic figure of 18th century and also he is an extreme self-critic. He written 13 poems in his lifetime. This blog helps you to understand the summary of his famous poem "Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard".
Short Summary
This poem was written in 1751 by Gray. It is a mournful poem written in the memory of Richard, his friend who died in 1742. The first twelve line of this poem describes about the surroundings of the location of the churchyard in detail. When he looking at the graveyard he thinks that death is an inevitable thing in every human life that everyone of us going to die someday. He was just imagining that the writer which means he himself will die in the future and that time a random village man sees his tomb as he seeing his friend's tomb at present. Finally he ended up writing elegy for this own death.
Themes:
1. Death is inevitable
2. Isolation
3. Society
4. Nature world & Human life
5. Past & Future
THE POEM
The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea,
The plowman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
Now fades the glimm'ring landscape on the
sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning
flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;
Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r
The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of such, as wand'ring near her secret bow'r,
Molest her ancient solitary reign.
Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's
shade,
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 incense-breathing Morn,
The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built
shed,
The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing
horn,
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.
For them no more the blazing hearth shall
burn,
Or busy housewife ply her evening care:
No children run to lisp their sire's return,
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.
Oft did the harvest to their sickle 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 not Ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile
The short and simple annals of the poor.
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er
gave,
Awaits 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 aisle and fretted
vault
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.
Can storied urn or animated bust
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust,
Or Flatt'ry 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
sway'd,
Or wak'd to ecstasy the living lyre.
But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page
Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll;
Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the soul.
Full many a gem of purest ray serene,
The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear:
Full many a flow'r is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.
Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless
breast
The little tyrant of his fields withstood;
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,
Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's
blood.
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 circumscrib'd
alone
Their
growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd;
Forbade to wade through slaughter to a
throne,
And
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.
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.
Their name, their years, spelt by th'
unletter'd 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 a prey,
This
pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd,
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful
day,
Nor
cast one longing, ling'ring 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 inquire 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,
Mutt'ring
his wayward fancies he would rove,
Now drooping, woeful wan, like one
forlorn,
Or
craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless love.
"One morn I miss'd him on 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
thro' the church-way path we saw him borne.
Approach and read (for thou canst read) the
lay,
Grav'd
on the stone beneath yon aged thorn."
THE EPITAPH
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 soul
sincere,
Heav'n
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.