ELEGY WRITTEN IN COUNTRY CHURCHYARD (1751) 

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 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 tow'r 
The moping owl does to the [bad word] 
Of such as, wand'ring near her secret bow'r, 
Molest her ancient solitary reign. 

Beneath [bad word] elms, that yew-tree's shade, 
Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap, 
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,  [bad word] Forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 

The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn, 
The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed, 
The [bad word] 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 [bad word] 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 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 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 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 [bad word]  
The threats of pain [bad word] to despise, 
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, 
And read their history in a nation's eyes, 

Their lot forbade: nor circumscribed alone 
Their glowing virtues, but their crimes confined; 
Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, 
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind, 

The [bad word] pangs of conscious [bad word] 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.