The Clopton Chronicles
A Project of the Clopton Family Genealogical Society
ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY
CHURCHYARD
By
Thomas Gray
The curfew tolls the knell
of parting day;
The lowing her wind slowly
o’er the lea;
The ploughman homeward plods
his weary way,
And leaves the world to
darkness and to me.
Now fades the glimmering
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 tower,
The moping owl does to the
moon complain
Of such as, wandering near
her secret bower,
Molest her ancient solitary
reign.
Beneath those rugged elms, that
yew-tree’s shade
Where heaves the turf in
many a mouldering 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 twittering 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,
Oar 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 bowed 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 power,
And all that beauty, all
that wealth e’er gave,
Awaits alike the inevitable
hour: -
The paths of glory lead but
to the grave.
Nor you, ye proud, impute to
these the fault,
If memory o’er their tomb no
trophies raise,
Where through 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 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 sway’d,
Or waked 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 repressed their
noble rage,
And froze the genial current
of the soul.
Full many a gem of purest
ray serene
The dark unfathomed caves of
ocean bear;
Full many a flower 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 listening
senates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin
to despise,
To scatter plenty o’er a
smiling land,
And read their history in a
nation’s eyes,
Their lot forbade: nor circumscribed alone
Their growing virtues, but
their crimes confined;
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
learned to stray;
Along the cool sequestered
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 decked,
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 a prey,
This pleasing anxious being
e’er resigned,
Left the warm precincts of
the cheerful day,
Nor cast one longing
lingering 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
the unhonoured dead,
Dost in these lines their
artless tale relate;
If chance, by lonely
contemplation led,
Some kindred spirit shall
inquire thy fate, -
Haply some hoard-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 stretched,
And pore upon the brook that
babbles by.
“Hard by yon wood, now smiling
as in scorn,
Muttering his wayward
fancies he would rove;
Now drooping, woeful-wan,
like one forlorn,
Or crazed with care, or
crossed in hopeless love.
“One morn I missed him on
the accustomed 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 wit dirges due, in
sad array,
Slow through the church-way
path we saw him borne, -
Approach and read (for thou
canst read) the lay
Graved 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 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 (‘twas
all he wished) a friend.
No further 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.
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