Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard (Gray)
Short summary
The poem opens at dusk in a rural churchyard as evening falls. The speaker observes the quiet landscape where simple country folk lie buried beneath the elms and yew trees. These humble villagers will never again wake to morning's call or return to their families and daily labors. The poet reflects that their obscure lives and simple joys should not be mocked by the ambitious or wealthy.
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.
The speaker contemplates that among these graves may rest individuals who possessed great potential—perhaps a village leader who resisted tyranny, an unrecognized poet, or a leader who never had the chance to commit great crimes or virtues. Poverty prevented them from developing their talents, like gems hidden in ocean depths or flowers blooming unseen. Far from worldly ambition, they lived quiet lives along a peaceful path. Simple memorials with crude verses mark their resting places, teaching rustic moralists about mortality. The poem concludes with a villager describing the poet's own habits and eventual death.
An epitaph reveals that the poet was a youth unknown to fortune and fame, marked by melancholy, generous in spirit, who gave tears to misery and gained a friend from heaven.
Detailed summary
Division into sections is editorial.
Evening descends upon the country churchyard
As evening fell, the curfew bell tolled the end of day. A herd of cattle wound slowly across the meadow, and a weary plowman trudged homeward, leaving the world to darkness and solitude. The landscape faded from view as twilight deepened, and a solemn stillness settled over everything. Only the droning flight of a beetle and the distant tinkling of sheep bells broke the silence. From an ivy-covered tower, a moping owl complained to the moon about those who wandered near her ancient domain and disturbed her solitary reign.
The simple lives and deaths of the village forefathers
Beneath the rugged elms and yew-tree's shade, where the turf heaved in moldering heaps, the rude forefathers of the hamlet slept forever in their narrow cells. No longer would the morning breeze, the swallow's twittering, the cock's clarion, or the echoing horn wake them from their lowly beds. For them, the blazing hearth would burn no more, no busy housewife would ply her evening care, no children would run to greet their father's return or climb his knees to share an envied kiss.
Often had the harvest yielded to their sickles, their furrows had broken the stubborn earth. How joyfully they drove their teams afield, and how the woods bowed beneath their sturdy strokes. Yet ambition should not mock their useful toil, their homely joys and obscure destiny.
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 power, and all that beauty and wealth ever gave awaited alike the inevitable hour. The paths of glory led only to the grave. No storied urn or animated bust could call the fleeting breath back to its mansion, nor could honor's voice provoke the silent dust or flattery soothe the dull cold ear of death.
Meditations on ambition, glory, and unfulfilled potential
Perhaps in this neglected spot lay some heart once pregnant with celestial fire, hands that might have swayed the reins of empire, or awakened to ecstasy the living lyre.
Perhaps in this neglected Spot is laid
Some Heart once pregnant with celestial Fire,
Hands that the Reins of Empire might have sway'd,
Or wak'd to Extacy the living Lyre.
But knowledge never unrolled to their eyes her ample page rich with the spoils of time. Chill penury repressed their noble rage and froze the genial current of the soul. Full many a gem of purest ray serene bore the dark unfathomed caves of ocean. Full many a flower was born to blush unseen and waste its sweetness on the desert air.
Some village Hampden might rest here who with dauntless breast withstood the little tyrant of his fields. Some mute inglorious Milton might lie in this spot, some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood. Their lot forbade them not only to command the applause of listening senates, to despise the threats of pain and ruin, to scatter plenty over a smiling land, and read their history in a nation's eyes. It also circumscribed their growing virtues but confined their crimes. It forbade them to wade through slaughter to a throne and shut the gates of mercy on mankind.
Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, their sober wishes never learned to stray. Along the cool sequestered vale of life, they kept the noiseless tenor of their way. Yet even these bones required some frail memorial erected nearby to protect them from insult, decked with uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture, imploring the passing tribute of a sigh. Their names and years, spelled by the unlettered muse, supplied the place of fame and elegy, and many a holy text around taught the rustic moralist to die.
The poets own fate: a swains account and epitaph
For who ever resigned this pleasing anxious being to dumb forgetfulness, left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, without casting one longing lingering look behind? On some fond breast the parting soul relied, some pious drops the closing eye required. Even from the tomb the voice of nature cried, faithful to her wonted fires.
For the one who, mindful of the unhonored dead, related their artless tale in these lines, if chance by lonely contemplation led some hidden spirit to inquire about his fate, perhaps some hoary-headed swain would speak.
The swain would say he often saw 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 a nodding beech that wreathed its old fantastic roots so high, he would stretch his listless length at noontide and pore upon the brook that babbled by. Hard by the wood, now frowning as in scorn, he would rove muttering his wayward fancies, now drooping woeful and wan like one forlorn or crazed with care or crossed in hopeless love. One morning the swain missed him on the customary hill, along the heath, and near his favorite tree. Another day came, nor yet was he beside the rill, nor up the lawn, nor at the wood. The next day, with dirges due in sad array, they saw him borne slowly through the churchway path. The swain would then direct the inquirer to approach and read the lay graved on the stone beneath an aged thorn.
The epitaph told that here rested the head of a youth unknown to fortune and fame upon the lap of earth. Fair science frowned not on his humble birth, and melancholy marked him for her own. Large was his bounty and his soul sincere. Heaven sent a recompense as largely. He gave to misery all he had, a tear. He gained from heaven all he wished, a friend. The epitaph concluded by advising seekers to go no farther in disclosing his merits or drawing his frailties from their dread abode, where they alike reposed in trembling hope in the bosom of his father and his god.