WorldLit Week 5-The Elegy Written in A Country Churchyard

ENGLISH LITERATURE
ELEGY WRITTEN IN
A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD
By Thomas Gray (1716-71)
[This poem which is considered one of the best known and widely read
elegies in the English language, exemplies poetry during the Transition Period in
English literature. It is one of the forerunners of romanticism in that it shuns the
excessive artificiality of the Age of Classicism. It is romantic in that it gives
expression to the concerns of ordinary people in the countryside.
An elegy is a lyric poem that expresses a feeling, voices a mood about the
meaning of life and death. It is lyric poetry devoted to a philosophical meditation
of the quintessence of death.
The source of Gray’s inspiration for the elegy was the churchyard of Stoke
Poges, a farming village near London. In the poem, Gray contemplates on the
effects of nature on one’s moods and on the life of common people, their simple
joys and their destined lot.]
The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,

The lowing herd winds 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,
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 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 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.
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 repress'd their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the soul.
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 list'ning 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 forbad: nor circumscribed alone

Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined;
Forbad 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 learn'd to stray;
Along the cool sequester'd vale of life
They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.
Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect

Some frail memorial still erected nigh,
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd,
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd 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 resign'd,
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;
E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,
E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.
For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead,

Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;
If chance, by lonely contemplation led,
Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, --
Haply some hoary-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 stretch,
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 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
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 Melacholy 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 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.
Suggestions for Discussion
1. This poem expresses definite divisions of thought. Mark the stanza groups
under the following headings.: a) the setting, b) the life of the villagers, c)
death, the great equalizer, which is the common end of all, regardless of
social class, d) the potentialities of talents of some of the villagers which have
remained undeveloped, e) the yearning of the villagers for a memorial, f)
Gray’s own death which he anticipates, g) the epitaph that he desires.
2. Describe the scenes and the images pictured in the poem. Are these also to
be found in rural Philippines? Explain.
3. What human existences are portrayed in the poem?
4. Point out what you think are the best stanzas in the poem. Be prepared to
defend your choice or choices.
Source:Alcantra, Cabanilla, & Casambre. World Literature. QC: Katha Publishing Co.,
Inc., 2000.
Vocabulary Building
Crossword Puzzle
1

2 3

4

5

6

7 8

9

10

11

12 13

14

15

16

17

Across Down
2. area in front of a fireplace 1. father; male parent
4. be sad/ listless 2. group of animals
6. walk heavily or slowly 3. small village
7. inscription in memory of a dead person 5. land
10. full of mirth (gladness and laughter) 6. tool for soil
13. dull sound usually bee 8. make a high ringing sound
15. to that place 9. wrinkle or groove
16. farewell 11. imperfect pronunciation of s and z
17. peasant; rustic lover 12. woody vine with evergreen leaves
13. mournful songs
14. stroke of a bell Imagery
Matrix
As you read, identify images or words and phrases that contain sensory details.
Write each sensory detail beneath the sense to which it appeals.
Image Matrix
Sight Sound Touch Taste Smell

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ENGLISH LITERATURE

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,

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 breezy call of incense-breathing morn,

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,

Nor you, ye Proud, impute to these the fault

Can storied urn or animated bust

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page,

Full many a gem of purest ray serene

Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast

Th' applause of list'ning senates to command,

Their lot forbad: nor circumscribed alone

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,

Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect

Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd Muse,

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,

On some fond breast the parting soul relies,

For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead,

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,

"There at the foot of yonder nodding beech

"Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,

"One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill,

"The next with dirges due in sad array

Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,

No farther seek his merits to disclose,

3. What human existences are portrayed in the poem?

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