Journeys Through Bookland Volume Vi Part 45

NOTE.--A mournful song written to express grief at the loss of some friend or relative, and at the same time to praise the dead person, is known as an elegy. Sometimes the word has a wider meaning, and includes a poem which expresses the same ideas but applies them to a cla.s.s of people rather than to an individual. Such a poem is not so personal, and for that very reason it will be appreciated by a larger number of readers. Gray's _Elegy_ is of the latter cla.s.s--is perhaps the one great poem of that cla.s.s; for in all probability more people have loved it and found in its gentle sadness, its exquisite phraseology and its musical lines more genuine charm than in any similar poem in the language.

To one who already loves it, any comments on the poem may at first thought seem like desecration, but, on the other hand, there is so much more in the _Elegy_ than appears at first glance that it is worth while to read it in the light of another's eyes. Not a few persons find some enjoyment in reading, but fall far short of the highest pleasure because of their failure really to comprehend the meaning of certain words and forms of expression. For that reason, notes are appended where they may be needed. A good reader is never troubled by notes at the bottom of the page. If they are of no interest or benefit to him, he knows it with a glance and pa.s.ses on with his reading. If the note is helpful, he gathers the information and returns to his reading, beginning not at the word from which the reference was made, but at the beginning of the sentence or stanza; then he loses nothing by going to the footnote.

The curfew[361-1] tolls the knell[361-2] 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.

[Ill.u.s.tration: HOMEWARD PLODS HIS WEARY WAY]

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;[361-3]

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower[362-4]

The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, Molest her ancient solitary reign.[362-5]

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mold'ring heap, Each in his narrow cell forever laid, The rude[362-6] forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, The c.o.c.k's shrill clarion,[362-7] or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.[362-8]

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or busy housewife ply her evening care;[362-9]

No children run to lisp their sire's return,[363-10]

Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe[363-11] has broke; How jocund[363-12] did they drive their team a-field!

How bowed the woods beneath their st.u.r.dy stroke!

Let not Ambition[363-13] 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 power, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Await[363-14] alike th' inevitable hour: The paths of glory lead but to the grave.[363-15]

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, Where, through the long-drawn aisle[364-16] and fretted vault, The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

Can storied urn or animated bust[364-17]

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?

Can Honour's voice provoke[364-18] the silent dust, Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of Death?

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;[364-19]

Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.[364-20]

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page, Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll;[364-21]

Chill Penury repressed their n.o.ble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.

Full many a gem of purest ray serene The dark, unfathomed 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.[365-22]

Th' applause[365-23] of listening 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 circ.u.mscribed alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined; Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,[365-24]

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.[366-25]

Far from the madding[366-26] crowd's ign.o.ble strife, Their sober wishes never learned 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[366-27] still erected nigh, With uncouth[366-28] rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked, Implores the pa.s.sing tribute of a sigh.

Their name, their years, spelt by th' unlettered Muse, The place of fame and elegy supply; And many a holy text around she strews, That teach the rustic moralist to die.[366-29]

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?[367-30]

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,[367-31] who, mindful of th' unhonored dead, Dost in these lines their artless tale relate; If chance, by lonely Contemplation led, Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,

Haply some h.o.a.ry-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 crossed in hopeless love.

"One morn I missed him from 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,[368-32] 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 yon aged thorn."[368-33]

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 Misery, 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 frailties from their dread abode, (There they alike in trembling hope repose,) The bosom of his Father and his G.o.d.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE COUNTRY CHURCHYARD]

Thomas Gray was born in London on the twenty-sixth of December, 1716, and received his education at Cambridge, where he lived most of his quiet life and where he died in 1771. He was a small and graceful man with handsome features and rather an effeminate appearance, always dressed with extreme care. The greater part of his life was spent in neatly furnished rooms among his books, for he was a hard student, and became noted as one of the first scholars of his time. Among his friends he was witty and entertaining, but among strangers, quiet and reserved, almost timid. He loved his mother devotedly, and after her death he kept her dress neatly folded in his trunk, always by him. Innocent, well-meaning, gentle and retiring, he drew many warm friends to him, though his great learning and his fondness for giving information made many people think him something of a prig.

It might be considered a weakness in the _Elegy_ that it drifts into an elegy on the writer, who becomes lost in the pathos of his own sad end. Yet, knowing the man as we do, we can understand his motives and forgive the seeming selfishness. He is not the only poet whose own sorrows, real or imaginary, were his greatest inspiration.

The metre of the _Elegy_ had been used, before Gray's time, by Sir John Davies for his _Immortality of the Soul_, Sir William Davenant in his _Gondibert_, and Dryden in his _Annus Mirabilis_, and others; but in no instance so happily as here by Gray. In the _Elegy_ the quatrain has not the somewhat disjunctive and isolating effect that it has in some other works where there is continuous argument or narrative that should run on with as few metrical hindrances as possible. It is well adapted to convey a series of solemn reflections, and that is its work in the _Elegy_.

FOOTNOTES:

[361-1] In some of our American towns and cities a curfew bell is rung as a signal that the children must leave the streets and go to their homes. Many years ago it was the custom in English villages to ring a bell at nightfall as a signal for people to cover their fires with ashes to preserve till morning, and as a signal for bed. The word _curfew_, in fact, is from the French, and means _cover fire_.

[361-2] The word _knell_ suggests death, and gives the first mournful note to the poem.

[361-3] The sheep are shut up for the night in the _folds_ or pens. What are the _tinklings_? Why should they be called _drowsy_?