Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard The curfew tolls [ tolls ] [ Era gia l' ora , che volge 'l disio A' naviganti , e' ntenerisce 'l cuore Lo di ch' han detto a' dolci amici addio : E che lo nuovo peregrin d' amore Punge , se ode ] — squilla di lontano Che paia 'l giorno pianger , che si muore . [ ( It was already the hour which turns back the desire Of the sailors , and melts their hearts , The day that they have said good-bye to their sweet friends , And which pierces the new pilgrim with love , If he hears ) — from afar the bell Which seems to mourn the dying day . ] Dante . Purgat . l. 8. [ Canto 8 lines i-vi . ] the knell of parting day , The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea , The ploughman homeward plods his weary way , And leaves the world to darkness and to me . 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 ; Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such , as wandering near her secret bower , Molest her ancient solitary reign . Beneath those rugged elms , that yew-tree's shade , Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering 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 twittering from the straw-built shed , The cock's 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 sire's 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 bowed 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 power , And all that beauty , all that wealth e'er gave , Awaits alike the inevitable hour . 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 , Where through 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 Honour's voice provoke 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 ; 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 ; Chill Penury repressed their noble 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 . The applause 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 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 , To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame , 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 They kept the noiseless tenor of their way . Yet even these bones from insult to protect Some frail memorial still erected nigh , With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked , Implores the passing tribute of a sigh . Their name , their years , spelt by the unlettered 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 e'er resigned , Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day , Nor cast one longing lingering look behind ? On some fond breast the parting soul relies , Some pious drops the closing eye requires ; Ev'n from the tomb the voice of nature cries , Ev'n in our ashes live their wonted fires . Ch'i veggio nel pensier , dolce mio fuoco , Fredda una lingua , & due begli occhi chiusi Rimaner doppo noi pien di faville . [ For I see in my thoughts , my sweet fire , One cold tongue , and two beautiful closed eyes Will remain full of sparks after our death . ] Petrarch . Son. 169. [ 170 in usual enumeration ] For thee , who mindful of the unhonoured 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 , ' Muttering 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 favourite 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 through the church-way path we saw him borne . ' Approach and read ( for thou can'st read ) the lay , ' 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 frowned not on his humble birth , And Melancholy marked him for her own . Large was his bounty and his soul sincere , Heaven did a recompence 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 — paventosa speme . [ — fearful hope ] Petrarch . Son. 114. [ 115 in usual enumeration ] repose ) The bosom of his Father and his God .