This is Thomas Gray most famous poem,
and you can find it in most anthologies of
English poetry:
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 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 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
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 Pentury 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 of 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 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,
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 sequestered 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 decked,
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
Their name, their years, spelt by the
unlettered 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 resigned,
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;
E’en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,
E’en in our ashes live their wonted fires.
For thee, who, mindfull of the unhonoured
dead,
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;
If chance, by lonely contemplation led,
Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,
Haply some hooray-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 crazed with care, or cross’d in hopeless
love.
“One morn I missed him on the customed 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 through the church-way path we saw
him borne.
Approach and read (for thou canst read) the
lay
Graved on the stone beneath you 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 Melancholy marked him for her own.
Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,
Heaven did a recompense as largely send:
He gave to Mis’ry all he had, a tear,
He gained from Heaven (‘’twas all he
wished) a friend.
No farther seek his merits to disclose,
Or draw his frailities from their dread
abode,
(There they alike in trembling hope repose,)
The bosom of his Father and his God.
The poem with the stressed
syllables underlined:
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 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 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 Pentury 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 of 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 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,
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 sequestered 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 decked,
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
Their name, their years, spelt by the
unlettered 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 resigned,
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;
E’en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,
E’en in our ashes live their wonted fires.
For thee, who, mindfull of the unhonoured
dead,
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;
If chance, by lonely contemplation led,
Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,
Haply some hooray-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 crazed with care, or cross’d in hopeless
love.
“One morn I missed him on the customed 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 through the church-way path we saw
him borne.
Approach and read (for thou canst read) the
lay
Graved on the stone beneath you 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 Melancholy marked him for her own.
Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,
Heaven did a recompense as largely send:
He gave to Mis’ry all he had, a tear,
He gained from Heaven (‘’twas all he
wished) a friend.
No farther seek his merits to disclose,
Or draw his frailities from their dread
abode,
(There they alike in trembling hope repose,)
The bosom of his Father and his God.
Analysis:
This is another poem that greatly
benefits from knowing the rhythm.
It makes the reading flow by much
quicker. It actually gives a pleasant
picture of life in the country: a still,
slow, quiet life. It makes me think of
times in rural Nova Scotia when I
was cut off from technology and
media, listening to the sound of birds,
bugs, and the wind. The respect that
he shows to ordinary, simple people
living unknown lives is very touching,
and wants you to be one of them.
This was a very popular poem,
and one that General Wolfe read
in his leisure time.
© C.A. MacLennan 2024
