About the THOMAS GRAY

Author Why Thomas Gray writes elegy?

English poet whose “An Elegy Written in a Country
Church Yard” is one of the best-known English lyric
poems. Although his literary output was slight, he was
the dominant poetic figure in the mid-18th century
and a precursor of the Romantic movement.

Born into a prosperous but unhappy home, Gray was

the sole survivor of 12 children of a harsh and violent
father and a long-suffering mother, who operated a
millinery business to educate him.

Gray died at 55 and was buried in the country

churchyard at Stoke Poges, Buckinghamshire,
celebrated in his “Elegy.”
Elegy Written
in a Country
Churchyard
One Day Your Life Will Flash Before Your Eyes,
Make Sure It’s Worth Watching – Gerard Way

Presented by:
Mikaela Alto
 Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,

Elegy Written in a Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;

Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile
Country Churchyard The short and simple annals of the poor.

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r,
The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
The plowman homeward plods his weary way, Awaits alike th' inevitable hour.
And leaves the world to darkness and to me. The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Now fades the glimm'ring landscape on the sight, Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds, If Mem'ry o'er their tomb no trophies raise,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, Where thro' the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds; The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r Can storied urn or animated bust
The moping owl does to the moon complain Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
Of such, as wand'ring near her secret bow'r, Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust,
Molest her ancient solitary reign. Or Flatt'ry soothe the dull cold ear of Death?

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid
Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap, Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd,
The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. Or wak'd to ecstasy the living lyre.

The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn, But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page
The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed, Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll;
The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage,
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. And froze the genial current of the soul.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Full many a gem of purest ray serene,
Or busy housewife ply her evening care: The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear:
No children run to lisp their sire's return, Full many a flow'r is born to blush unseen,
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; The little tyrant of his fields withstood;
How jocund did they drive their team afield! Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,
How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood.
Th' applause of list'ning senates to command, For thee, who mindful of th' unhonour'd Dead
The threats of pain and ruin to despise, Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, If chance, by lonely contemplation led,
And read their hist'ry in a nation's eyes, Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,

Their lot forbade: nor circumscrib'd alone Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd; "Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn
Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, Brushing with hasty steps the dews away
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind, To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, "There at the foot of yonder nodding beech
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,
Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride His listless length at noontide would he stretch,
With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, "Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,
Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray; Mutt'ring his wayward fancies he would rove,
Along the cool sequester'd vale of life Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn,
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless love.

Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect, "One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill,
Some frail memorial still erected nigh, Along the heath and near his fav'rite tree;
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd, Another came; nor yet beside the rill,
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;

Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd muse, "The next with dirges due in sad array
The place of fame and elegy supply: Slow thro' the church-way path we saw him borne.
And many a holy text around she strews, Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay,
That teach the rustic moralist to die. Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn."

THE EPITAPH
For who to dumb Forgetfulness a prey, Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth No farther seek his merits to disclose,
Or draw his frailties from their dread
This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd, A youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown.
Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth, abode,
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
And Melancholy mark'd him for her own. (There they alike in trembling hope repose)
Nor cast one longing, ling'ring look behind? The bosom of his Father and his God.
Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,
On some fond breast the parting soul relies, Heav'n did a recompense as largely send:
He gave to Mis'ry all he had, a tear,
Some pious drops the closing eye requires;
He gain'd from Heav'n ('twas all he wish'd)
Ev'n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, a friend.
Ev'n in our ashes live their wonted fires.