THOMAS GRAY Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, 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, Can storied urn or animated bust Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can Honor's voice provoke the silent dust, Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of Death? Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 45 Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page Chill Penury repressed their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul. Full many a gem of purest ray serene, And waste its sweetness on the desert air. Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood. 65 70 75 80 85 90 The applause of listening senates to command, 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, With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. Yet even these bones from insult to protect, Their name, their years, spelt by the unlettered muse, And many a holy text around she strews, For who to dumb Forgetfulness a prey, On some fond breast the parting soul relies, For thee, who mindful of the unhonored dead "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, 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 favorite tree; Another came; nor yet beside the rill, the lawn, nor at the wood was he; 95 100 105 110 Nor up "The next with dirges due in sad array Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne. Approach and read (for thou canʼst read) the lay, 115 Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." THE EPITAPH Here rests his head upon the lap of earth He gave to Misery all he had, a tear, He gained from Heaven ('twas all he wished) a friend. 120 125 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 God. WILLIAM COWPER On Human Slavery (From The Task, Book II) Oh for a lodge in some vast wilderness, Might never reach me more! My ear is pained, Of wrong and outrage with which earth is filled. That falls asunder at the touch of fire. He finds his fellow guilty of a skin Not colored like his own, and, having power Then what is man? And what man seeing this, |