Chapter 8 No.8

In speaking of Gray, some one has said that no other writer has come down to posterity with such a small book under his arm; and to this may be added the statement that every piece in his book shows careful finish. His fame rests mainly on three poems: the Elegy, The Progress of Poesy, and The Bard. Of these the Elegy is by far the most popular, because it expresses in simple and beautiful language sentiments which appeal to all, whatever their condition.

In character Gray was high-minded, and in temperament reserved and shy. It is said that after he was acknowledged to be the greatest poet living in England, people used to watch eagerly for a glimpse of him; but he usually managed to elude them and to slip away unnoticed. His sensitiveness may have been due in part to the fact that his health was delicate and that he was much alone when a child-for all his brothers and sisters died in infancy. Although unfortunate in his father, he was blessed with a devoted mother, who by her exertions enabled him to go to Cambridge University. It is pleasant to know that he warmly returned her love and that he now rests by her side in the churchyard at Stoke Poges, which is always associated with the Elegy. On her tomb he placed the inscription "-mother of many children, one of whom alone had the misfortune to survive her." Gray's friends were warmly attached to him. With one of them, Horace Walpole, the well-known author and collector, he traveled on the continent soon after leaving the university; and although they quarreled and separated the friendship was renewed later. Gray never married. In 1742 he returned to Cambridge and lived there during the rest of his life, with the exception of two years spent in London. After he became famous the laureateship was offered to him, but his dislike of publicity caused him to refuse it. In 1768 he was made Professor of Modern History and Languages at Cambridge. All his life he was a student; indeed he was the most learned of the English poets, except possibly Milton. In some respects he was in advance of his age. He appreciated certain kinds of poetry that no one else liked in his time, and he cared greatly for wild nature. In these days, when almost every one loves rugged mountains and remote regions by the sea, it is hard to realize that there ever was a time when most persons preferred to look upon trim or even stiff gardens or the cultivated grounds of a country seat; but such was the case. Gray's admiration for wild nature comes out in his prose, especially in his letters, and in his Journal in the Lakes written in 1769; but later writers, Wordsworth above all, have expressed the same feeling in delightful verse.

As a poet Gray stands for beauty of form rather than for depth of thought or breadth of sympathy. He is first of all an artist, and his poems are among the most perfect in the English language.

ELEGY

WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD

The curfew[1] tolls the knell of parting day,

The lowing herd winds 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, 5

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 10

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, 15

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn,[2]

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. 20

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, 25

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe[3] has broke;

How jocund did they drive their team afield!

How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,

Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; 30

Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile

The short and simple annals of the poor.

The boast of heraldry,[4] the pomp of pow'r,

And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,

Awaits alike th' inevitable hour. 35

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 through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault[5]

The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. 40

Can storied urn[6] or animated[7] bust

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?

Can Honour's voice provoke[8] the silent dust,

Or Flatt'ry sooth the dull cold ear of Death?

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 45

Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;

Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed,

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; 50

Chill Penury repressed their noble rage,

And froze the genial current of the soul.

Full many a gem of purest ray serene[9]

The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear:

Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, 55

And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

Some village-Hampden,[10] that with dauntless breast,

The little Tyrant of his fields withstood,

Some mute inglorious Milton[11] here may rest,

Some Cromwell[12] guiltless of his country's blood. 60

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 circumscribed alone 65

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, 70

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 learned to stray;

Along the cool sequestered vale of life 75

They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect,

Some frail memorial still[13] erected nigh,

With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked,

Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 80

Their name, their years, spelt by th' unlettered Muse,[14]

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, 85

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; 90

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' unhonored Dead[15]

Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;

If chance,[16] by lonely Contemplation led, 95

Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,

Haply some hoary-headed swain[17] 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.[18] 100

"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, 105

Mutt'ring his wayward fancies he would rove;

Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn,

Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love.

"One morn I missed him on the customed hill,

Along the heath and near his fav'rite tree; 110

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 115

Graved 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[19] frowned not on his humble birth,

And Melancholy marked him for her own. 120

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 gained from Heaven ('t was all he wished) a friend.

No farther seek his merits to disclose, 125

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,

(There they alike in trembling hope repose,)

The bosom of his Father and his God.

NOTE.-The Elegy was finished at Stoke Poges in 1750, when the poet was thirty-four years old. It was so popular that one edition followed quickly upon another, and it was even translated into foreign languages.

Notice that throughout the poem the lines are of equal length, each consisting of five feet or measures, and that in a stanza the alternate lines rhyme.

[1.] The curfew was an evening bell which originally warned people to cover their fires, put out their lights, and go to bed. It was instituted in England after the Norman Conquest. The word comes from the French couvrir (cover) and feu (fire).

[2.] Incense-breathing Morn. The poet regards the morning as a person; that is, he personifies morning. Personification is seldom used now, but the eighteenth-century poets delighted in it. It is frequently employed in this poem.

[3.] Glebe, soil, ground.

[4.] The boast of heraldry, i.e. whatever has to do with high rank or pride of birth.

[5.] Where through the long-drawn aisle, etc. It was the custom to bury the poorer people of a village in the churchyard, and the rich or high-born in the church.

[6.] Storied urn. Funeral urns such as were used by the ancients were frequently decorated with scenes from the life of the deceased.

[7.] Animated, i.e. life-like.

[8.] Provoke, call forth, call back to life.

[9.] Full many a gem, etc. One of the best-known stanzas in English poetry.

[10.] Village-Hampden. John Hampden was an English patriot who refused to pay taxes levied by the king without the consent of Parliament, and who died in 1643 from a wound received while fighting for the liberties of England.

[11.] Milton. John Milton (1608-1674), the author of Paradise Lost, is generally ranked as the greatest English poet after Shakespeare.

[12.] Cromwell. Oliver Cromwell (1599-1658), the famous Protector, is now regarded by historians in general as one of the foremost champions of English liberty.

[13.] Still, always.

[14.] Th' unlettered Muse. In Greek mythology the Muses were nine goddesses who presided over the arts and sciences, song, and the different kinds of poetry. The true poet was supposed to be inspired by them. Gray imagines a new kind of Muse who inspires the writers of crude epitaphs.

[15.] For thee, who mindful, etc. Gray refers to himself as the writer of this poem.

[16.] Chance, perchance.

[17.] Swain, countryman. By swain the poets usually mean a country gallant or lover.

[18.] Lawn, a cleared place in a wood, not cultivated. Now, of course, the word always means grassland near a house which is kept closely cut.

[19.] Science, knowledge in general, not natural science only.

OLIVER GOLDSMITH