My true account, lest He, returning, chide; Milton. ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD 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 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 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; The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, 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 honor'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; But knowledge to their eyes her ample page, 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 Th' applause of list'ning senates to command, And read their history 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, With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd, Their names, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd Muse, And many a holy text around she strews, For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, This pleading, anxious being e'er resigned; Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind? On some fond breast the parting soul relies, For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonor'd dead, If chance, by lonely contemplation led, Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, "There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech, "Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, 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 favorite 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 I saw him borne: Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay Graved on the stone, beneath yon agèd thorn." THE EPITAPH Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth, Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere; 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. SANDALPHON Gray. Have you read in the Talmud of old, How, erect, at the outermost gates With his feet on the ladder of light, The Angels of Wind and of Fire With the song's irresistible stress; |