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.