ELEGY, WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, 5 Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds, 20 Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, 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, 15 Each in his narrow cell forever laid, 20 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, No children run to lisp their sire's return, 25 Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, 30 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, 35 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 40 The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. Can storied urn, or animated bust, Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? 45 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. 50 But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page And froze the genial current of the soul. Full many a gem of purest ray serene The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear; 55 Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 60 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, And read their hist'ry in a nation's eyes, 65 Their lot forbade: nor circumscrib'd alone 70 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, 75 Along the cool sequester'd vale of life 80 They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. Yet ev❜n these bones from insult to protect, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd Muse, And many a holy text around she strews, 85 For who, to dumb Forgetfulness a prey, 90 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, For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead, 95 If chance, by lonely Contemplation led, 100 Some kindred spirit shall enquire thy fate,- Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, "There at the foot of yonder nodding beech, 105 "Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, 110 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 through the church-way path we saw him borne: 115 Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." 120 THE EPITAPH. Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth, Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, He gave to Mis'ry all he had, a tear, He gained from Heav'n ('t was all he wish'd) a friend. |