THOMAS GRAY : POPULAR POEMS

 

THOMAS GRAY : 1716 - 1771

# 1.  ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD

The curfew tolls 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 glimm'ring 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 tow'r

         The moping owl does to the moon complain

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 the turf in many a mould'ring 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 twitt'ring 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 pow'r,

         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 Mem'ry o'er their tomb no trophies raise,

Where thro' 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 Flatt'ry 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 wak'd 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 flow'r 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 hist'ry in a nation's eyes,

Their lot forbade: nor circumscrib'd alone

         Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd;

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 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 tenor of their way.

Yet ev'n 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, ling'ring 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 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,

         Mutt'ring his wayward fancies he would rove,

Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn,

         Or craz'd 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 with dirges due in sad array

         Slow thro' the church-way path we saw him borne.

Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay,

         Grav'd 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 frown'd not on his humble birth,

       And Melancholy mark'd him for her own.

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,

       Heav'n did a recompense as largely send:

He gave to Mis'ry all he had, a tear,

       He gain'd from Heav'n ('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.

#  2. ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON COLLEGE

Ye distant spires, ye antique tow'rs,

         That crown the wat'ry glade,

Where grateful Science still adores

         Her Henry's holy Shade;

And ye, that from the stately brow

Of Windsor's heights th' expanse below

         Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey,

Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowr's among

Wanders the hoary Thames along

         His silver-winding way.

Ah, happy hills, ah, pleasing shade,

         Ah, fields belov'd in vain,

Where once my careless childhood stray'd,

         A stranger yet to pain!

I feel the gales, that from ye blow,

A momentary bliss bestow,

         As waving fresh their gladsome wing,

My weary soul they seem to soothe,

And, redolent of joy and youth,

         To breathe a second spring.

Say, Father Thames, for thou hast seen

         Full many a sprightly race

Disporting on thy margent green

         The paths of pleasure trace,

Who foremost now delight to cleave

With pliant arm thy glassy wave?

         The captive linnet which enthrall?

What idle progeny succeed

To chase the rolling circle's speed,

         Or urge the flying ball?

While some on earnest business bent

         Their murm'ring labours ply

'Gainst graver hours, that bring constraint

         To sweeten liberty:

Some bold adventurers disdain

The limits of their little reign,

         And unknown regions dare descry:

Still as they run they look behind,

They hear a voice in ev'ry wind,

         And snatch a fearful joy.

Gay hope is theirs by fancy fed,

         Less pleasing when possest;

The tear forgot as soon as shed,

         The sunshine of the breast:

Theirs buxom health of rosy hue,

Wild wit, invention ever-new,

         And lively cheer of vigour born;

The thoughtless day, the easy night,

The spirits pure, the slumbers light,

         That fly th' approach of morn.

Alas, regardless of their doom,

         The little victims play!

No sense have they of ills to come,

         Nor care beyond to-day:

Yet see how all around 'em wait

The ministers of human fate,

         And black Misfortune's baleful train!

Ah, show them where in ambush stand

To seize their prey the murth'rous band!

         Ah, tell them they are men!

These shall the fury Passions tear,

         The vultures of the mind

Disdainful Anger, pallid Fear,

         And Shame that skulks behind;

Or pining Love shall waste their youth,

Or Jealousy with rankling tooth,

         That inly gnaws the secret heart,

And Envy wan, and faded Care,

Grim-visag'd comfortless Despair,

         And Sorrow's piercing dart.

Ambition this shall tempt to rise,

         Then whirl the wretch from high,

To bitter Scorn a sacrifice,

         And grinning Infamy.

The stings of Falsehood those shall try,

And hard Unkindness' alter'd eye,

         That mocks the tear it forc'd to flow;

And keen Remorse with blood defil'd,

And moody Madness laughing wild

         Amid severest woe.

Lo, in the vale of years beneath

         A griesly troop are seen,

The painful family of Death,

         More hideous than their Queen:

This racks the joints, this fires the veins,

That ev'ry labouring sinew strains,

         Those in the deeper vitals rage:

Lo, Poverty, to fill the band,

That numbs the soul with icy hand,

         And slow-consuming Age.

To each his suff'rings: all are men,

         Condemn'd alike to groan,

The tender for another's pain;

         Th' unfeeling for his own.

Yet ah! why should they know their fate?

Since sorrow never comes too late,

         And happiness too swiftly flies.

Thought would destroy their paradise.

No more; where ignorance is bliss,

       'Tis folly to be wise.

#  3. ODE ON THE SPRING

Lo! where the rosy-bosom'd Hours,

Fair Venus' train appear,

Disclose the long-expecting flowers,

And wake the purple year!

The Attic warbler pours her throat,

Responsive to the cuckoo's note,

The untaught harmony of spring:

While whisp'ring pleasure as they fly,

Cool zephyrs thro' the clear blue sky

Their gather'd fragrance fling.

Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch

A broader, browner shade;

Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech

O'er-canopies the glade,

Beside some water's rushy brink

With me the Muse shall sit, and think

(At ease reclin'd in rustic state)

How vain the ardour of the crowd,

How low, how little are the proud,

How indigent the great!

Still is the toiling hand of Care:

The panting herds repose:

Yet hark, how thro' the peopled air

The busy murmur glows!

The insect youth are on the wing,

Eager to taste the honied spring,

And float amid the liquid noon:

Some lightly o'er the current skim,

Some show their gaily-gilded trim

Quick-glancing to the sun.

To Contemplation's sober eye

Such is the race of man:

And they that creep, and they that fly,

Shall end where they began.

Alike the busy and the gay

But flutter thro' life's little day,

In fortune's varying colours drest:

Brush'd by the hand of rough Mischance,

Or chill'd by age, their airy dance

They leave, in dust to rest.

Methinks I hear in accents low

The sportive kind reply:

Poor moralist! and what art thou?

A solitary fly!

Thy joys no glitt'ring female meets,

No hive hast thou of hoarded sweets,

No painted plumage to display:

On hasty wings thy youth is flown;

Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone—

We frolic, while 'tis May.

Source: https://www.poetryfoundation.org

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