Elegy written in a country churchyard by Thomas Gray. The curfew toles the nail of parting day, the lowing herd wine slowly or the lee, the plowman home would plodge his weary way, and leaves the world to darkness and to me. Now fade the glimmering landscape on the site, and all the air asolom stillness holds, safe where the beetle wheels his droning flight, and drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds. Save that from Yonder Ivan Mantel Tower, the moping owl dust to the moon complain, of such as wandering near her sacred bar, molest her ancient solitary rain. Beneath those rugged alms that you trees shade, where he is the turf in many a mouldring heap, each in his narrow cell forever laid, the road for fathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense breathing mourn, the swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, the cocks shrill clarion or the wake of enghorn, no more shall rouse them from their elderly bed. For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, no busy housewife pligh her evening care, no children run to list their sires return, who climb his knees, the envy'd kiss to share. After did the harvest to their sickle yield, therefore, after the stubborn gleab has broke, how jokened did they drive their team afield, how bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke. Let not ambition mark their useful toil, their homely joys and destiny obscure, no grander here with a distainful smile, the short and simple anels of the poor. The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, and all the beauty, all the wealth they gave, no weights alike, the inevitable hour, the paths of glory lead to the grave. No you ye proud impute to these default, if memory or their tomb no trove is raised, where through the long-drawn aisle and frett'd vault, the peeling anthem swills the note of praise. Can storied urn or animated bust, back to its mansion, called fleeting breath, can honor's voice provoke the silent dust, or flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of death. Perhaps in disneglected spart's laid, some heart once pregnant with celestial fire, hands that the rod of empire might have swayed, or wait to ecstasy the living liar. But knowledge to their eyes her ample page, rich with the spoils of time did near and raw, chill penu-ray repressed their noble rage, and froze the genial current of the soul. Full many a gem of purest race arreene, the dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear, full many a flower is born to blush unseen, and waste its sweetness on the desert air. Some village hampton that with don'tless breast, the little tyrant of his fields with stood, some mute, inglorious Milton hear may rest, some cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood. The applause of listening servants to command, the threats of pain and ruin to despise, to scatter plenty or a smiling land, and read their history in a nation's eyes. They're not forbade, nor circumscribed alone, they're 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, will heap the shrine of luxury and pride, with incense kindled at the muse's flame. Far from the madding crowds, ignoble strife, their sober wishes never learned to stray, long the cool sequestered veil of life, they kept the noiseless tenor of their way. Yet in these bones from insult to protect, some frail memorial still erected night, with uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck, implores the passing tribute of a sigh. Their name, their years, spelt by the unleaded muse, the place of fame and elegance apply, and many are wholly text around she's true, that teach the rustic moralist to die. For who to dump forgetfulness of prey, this pleasing, anxious being air 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, in from the tomb the voice of nature cries, in our ashes lid their wunted fires. For thee who mindful of the unhonoured dead, just in these lines their artless tale relate, if chance by lonely contemplation led, some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate. Surely some horrid headed sway may say, oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn, brushing with hasty steps the Jews away, to meet the sun upon the upland loan. There at the foot of Yonder nodding beach, that wreaths its old fantastic roots so high, his listless length at noon-tined he would stretch, and pour upon the brook that bowels by. Not by Yonder wood, now smiling as in scorn, muttering his waved fences he would row, now drooping woeful one, like one for Lorne, or crazed with care, or crossed in hoopless love. One more I missed him on the customed hill, along the heath and near his favorite tree, another came, no yet beside the hill, nor up the Lorne nor at the wood was he. The next with durgers due in Saturday, slow through the church way path we saw him born, approach and read, for thou canst read, the lay graved on the stone beneath Yonder edged dawn. Here rests his head upon the lap of earth, a youth to fortune and to fame and known, fair science frown night 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 at here, he gained from heaven to all he wished, a friend. No father seek his merits to disclose, or draw his frailtes from their dread abode, there they are like in trembling hope, ripos, the bosom of his father and his God.