ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD BY THOMAS GRAY
ELEGY
WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD BY THOMAS GRAY
The Curfew toils 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 glimmering landscape on
the sight,
And all the air a solemn
stillness holds;
Save where the beetle wheels his
droning flight,
And drowsy tinkling lulls
the distant folds;
Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow’r
The moping owl does to the
moon complain 10
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 turf in many a
mould’ ring heap,
Each in his narrow cell for ever lay,
The rude Forefathers of the
hamlet sleep.
The breezy call of incense-breathing
Morn,
The swallow twitt’ting from
the straw built shed
The cocks shrill charion, or the
echoing horn,
No more shall rouse them
from their lowly bed. 20
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 mocks their useful
toil,
Their homely joys and destiny
obscure; 30
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 ev’r 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 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. 40
Can storied urn or animated bust
Back to its mansion call
the fleeting breath?
Can honor’s voice provoke the silent dust?
Or flatt’ry soothes 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 wake 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 unfathon’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 60
Th’ applause of list’ning senates to
command,
The threats of pain and
ruin to despite,
To scatter plenty o’er a smiling land,
And read their hist’try 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 or 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 e’en these bones from insult to
protect
Some frail memorial still
erected nigh.
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless
sculpture dock’d,
Implores the passing
tribute of a sigh 80
Their names, their years, spelt by
th’unletter’d Muse,
The place of fame and elegy
supply:
And many a holy text around her strews.
Those teach the rustic moralist
to die.
For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,
This pleasing anxious being
e’er resign’d
Left the warm precinct 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 lives
their wonted Fires.
For thee, who, mindful of th’unhonor’d dead?
Dost in these lines their
artless tale relates;
If chance, by lonely contemplation led,
Some kindred spirit shall
inquire thy fate.
Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,
‘Off have we seen him at
the peep of dawn?
Brushing with hasty steps the dews away
To meet the sun upon the
upland lawn 100
“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 you wood, now smiling as in
scorns,
Mutt’ ring his wayward fancies
he would rove.
Now drooped, woeful 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 fav’rite tree;
Another came nor yet beside the rill,
Nor up the lawn, nor at the
wood was he:
“The next win 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
you 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 marked’ him for her
own. 120
Large was his bounty, and his soul sincerely,
Heaven did recompense as
largely send.
He gave to Mis’ry 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.
CONTENT ANALYSIS
Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard celebrates the
memory of some dead forefathers in a rustic society. The farmer returns home at
the close of the day’s work in the midst of lowing herd returning from grazing,
the dying sun, the approaching moon, the curfew bell, the beetle drones and the
moping owls. This artificial environment moves to the graveyard of the
forefathers whose quiet environment reflects the quiet sleep of the dead fathers.
None of the human activities or natural movement described in these lines can
bring to life the dead fathers.
In lines 25 – 32, the poet states that the labor of
the forefathers in the harvest field, wood felling and their team spirit, must not
be in vain on the strength of present glory and achievements, in spite of their
abject poverty.
After all, the wealth and fame of today will end up in
death and what will be recognized and remembered will be inner virtues of life
which the forefathers have in abundance. They were pious and brave while
working in the service of their people. There may be no laurels on their tomb
but a correct assessment of their times and deeds will elicit praises. In lines
44 to 56, the wishing greatness of the forefathers is compared to precious stone.
In lines 49 – 92, the poet decries the disrespect
shown to the dead by the elites in the society.
These elites refused to carry on the legacy of the dead heroes and abuse
their memory.
The activities of contemporary elites are merciless
and selfish. They hate the truth and live on hypocrisy, pride and luxury. The legacy
of the dead are not only admirable but are also self-enduring. They are also
worthy legacy.
In lines 93 to the end, the poet turns his search on
the good work he has done in telling the story of the forefathers. He then
peeps into the future to behold what people would say of him years after he has
gone to the great beyond.
POETIC
DEVICES
(i)
Personification: Line 29, “Let not ambition mock their useful toil,” Line 31, “Nor Grandeur
hear with a disdainful smile”; line 43, “Can honor’s voice provoke the silent dust,”
and line 50, “Rich with spoils of time did never unroll”.
(ii)
Paradox:
Line 36, “The paths of glory lead but to the grave.”
(iii)
Alliteration:
Line 3, “The plowman homeward plods his weary way.”; line 7, “Save where the
beetle wheels his droning flight,”; line 33, “The boat of heraldry, the pomp of
power” line 38, “If memory over their Tomb no Trophies raise,” Line 120 “And
Melancholy mark’d him for her own”.
(iv)
Hyperbole:
The praise of the fore-fathers, the condemnation of the elites and the
description of his place in history are replete with deliberate embellishment.
(v)
Metaphor:
Line 10, “Moping owl”; line 17, “breezy call”; line 46 “celestial fire”.
(vi)
Transferred Epithet: Line 3, “The plowman homeward plods his weary way”.
(vii)
Assonance:
Line 3, “The plowman homeward plods his weary way.” Line 33, “The boast of heraldry,
the pomp of pow’r”; line 38, “If memory ov’r their Tomb no Trophies raise”;
line 43, “Can honor’s voice provoke the silent dust”.
THEMES
(i)
The futility of
life
(ii)
The importance of
credible legacy
(iii)
The condemnation
of evil
(iv)
The idea of life
as a journey
MOOD
The poem is about change.
The mood of the poem is that of sadness, disgust and total dissatisfaction with
the society.
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