WRITTEN IN A

COUNTRY

CHURCH-Y A R D.

GRAY.

THE curfew tolls the knell of parting day,

The lowing herd winds flowly 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 fight,
And all the air a folemn ftillness holds,

Save where the beetle wheels his drony 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 fuch, as, wand'ring near her fecret bow'r, Moleft her ancient, folitary reign.

Beneath thofe 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 incenfe-breathing morn,

The swallow,twitt'ring from the ftraw-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 lifp their fire's return,

Or climb his knees the envied kifs to share.

Oft did the harvest to their fickle yield;

Their furrow oft the ftubborn glebe has broke; How jocund did they drive their teams afield! How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

Let not ambition mock their useful toil,

Their homely joys, and deftiny obfcure;
Nor grandeur hear with a difdainful smile
The short and fimple annals of the poor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Await, 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 ile and fretted vault,
The pealing anthem fwells the note of praise.

Can ftoried urn, or animated bust,

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can Honour's voice provoke the filent dust,

Or Flatt'ry foothe the dull cold ear of death?

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid

Some heart once pregnant with celeftial fire: Hands, that the rod of empire might have fway'd, Or wak'd to extafy the living lyre.

But knowledge to their eyes her ample page,
Rich with the fpoils of Time, did ne'er unroll;
Chill Penury reprefs'd their noble rage,

And froze the genial current of the foul.
Full many a gem, of pureft ray ferene,
The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear;
Full many a flow'r is born to blush unseen,
And wafte its fweetnefs on the defart air.

Some village-Hampden; that with dauntless breaft
The little tyrant of his fields withstood;
Some mute inglorious Milton here may reft;
Some Cromwell guiltlefs of his country's blood.

Th' applause of lift'ning fenates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to despise,

To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,

And read their history in a nations eyes,

Their lot forbade: nor circumfcrib'd alone

Their growing virtues but their crimes confin'd; Forbade to wade through flaughter to a throne,

And shut the gates of mercy on mankind;

The

The ftruggling pangs of confcious truth to hide;
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,
Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride

With incense kindled at the Mufe's flame.

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble ftrife
Their fober wishes never learn'd to ftray;
Along the cool fequefter'd vale of life

They kept the noiseless tenor of their way, Yet e'en these bones from infult to protect, Some frail memorial ftill erected nigh, With uncouth rhimes and shapelefs fculpture 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 fupply;

And many a holy text around she strews,
That teach the ruftic moralift 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 caft one longing, ling'ring, look behind?

On fome fond breast the parting foul relies,
Some pious drops the clofing eye requires:
E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries,
E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.

F

For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead,
Doft in thefe lines their artless tale relate;
If, chance, by lonely Contemplation led,
Some kindred fpirit shall inquire thy fate;

Haply fome hoary-headed swain may say,

"Oft have we feen him, at the peep of dawn, Brushing, with hafty fteps, the dews away, To meet the fun upon the upland lawn.

There at the foot of yonder nodding beech,
That wreathes its old fantastic roots fo high,
His liftless length at noon-tide would he ftretch,
And pore upon the brook that babbles by.
Hard by yon wood, now finiling, as in fcorn,
Mutt'ring his wayward fancies, he would rove;
Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn,

Or craz'd with care, or crofs'd in hopeless love. One morn I miss'd him on th' accustom'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-yard path we saw him borne, Approach and read (for thou canft read) the lay,

Grav'd on the ftone beneath yon aged thorn."