Dunno why this came to mind tonight but have loved this poem for decades now. The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd wind slowly oer the lea, The plowman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me. Now fades the glimmring 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 towr The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such, as wandring near her secret bowr, Molest her ancient solitary reign. Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-trees shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mouldring 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 twittring from the straw-built shed, The cocks 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 sires 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 bowd 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 powr, And all that beauty, all that wealth eer 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 Memry oer 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 Honours voice provoke the silent dust, Or Flattry 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 swayd, Or wakd to ecstasy the living lyre. But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page Rich with the spoils of time did neer unroll; Chill Penury repressd their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul. Full many a gem of purest ray serene, The dark unfathomd caves of ocean bear: Full many a flowr 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 countrys blood. Th applause of listning senates to command, The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty oer a smiling land, And read their histry in a nations eyes, Their lot forbade: nor circumscribd alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confind; 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 Muses flame. Far from the madding crowds ignoble strife, Their sober wishes never learnd to stray; Along the cool sequesterd vale of life They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. Yet evn these bones from insult to protect, Some frail memorial still erected nigh, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deckd, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. Their name, their years, spelt by th unletterd 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 eer resignd, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing, lingring look behind? On some fond breast the parting soul relies, Some pious drops the closing eye requires; Evn from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, Evn in our ashes live their wonted fires. For thee, who mindful of th unhonourd 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, Muttring his wayward fancies he would rove, Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn, Or crazd with care, or crossd in hopeless love. One morn I missd him on the customd hill, Along the heath and near his favrite 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, Gravd 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 frownd not on his humble birth, And Melancholy markd him for her own. Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, Heavn did a recompense as largely send: He gave to Misry all he had, a tear, He gaind from Heavn (twas all he wishd) a friend. No farther seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, (There they alike in trembling hope repose)
Posted on: Sat, 09 Nov 2013 12:54:44 +0000
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