ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. THE Curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower, Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. 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 ; 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. 1 The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, The paths of glory lead but to the grave. No you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, If Memory o'er their tombs 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? 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, Full many a gem of purest ray serene, The dark, unfathom'd 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 The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, They kept the noiseless tenour of their way. Their name, their years, spell'd by th' unletter'd Muse, For who, to dumb Forgetfulness a prey, Some pious drops the closing eye requires; For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead, Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, "There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech, "Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove, Now drooping woful wan, like one forlorn, Or crazed 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 favourite 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. Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay, THE EPIТАРН. Here rests his head upon the lap of earth, He gave to Misery all he had, a tear; He gain'd from Heaven ('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. END OF VOL. I. |