ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD.

by Thomas Gray


THE Curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea,
The plowman 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 tow'r
The mopeing owl does to the moon complain
Of such as, wand'ring near her secret bow'r,
Molest her ancient solitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,
Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring 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 twitt'ring 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 bow'd 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 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.

Nor you, ye Proud, impute to These the fault,
If Mem'ry o'er their Tomb no Trophies raise,
Where through the long-drawn isle 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 Flatt'ry 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 sway'd,
Or wak'd to extasy the living lyre.

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page
Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll;
Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the soul.

Full many a gem of purest ray serene,
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-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.

Th' applause of list'ning senates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,
And read their hist'ry in a nation's eyes,

Their lot forbad : nor circumscrib'd alone
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd;
Forbad to wade through slaughter to a throne,
And shut the gates of merey 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 learn'd to stray;

Along the cool sequester'd vale of life
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect
Some frail memorial still erected nigh,
With uncouth rhimes and shapeless sculpture deck'd,
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd 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 resign'd,
Left the warm precincts of the chearful day.
Nor cast one longing ling'ring look behind ?

And thou, who mindful of th' unhonour'd Dead,
Dost in these Notes their artless Tale relate,
By Night and lonely Contemplation led
To linger in the gloomy Walks of Fate:

Hark ! how the sacred Calm, that broods around,
Bids ev'ry fierce tumultuous Passion cease;
In still small Accents whisp'ring from the Ground,
A grateful Earnest of eternal Peace.

No more, with Reason and thyself at Strife,
Give anxious Cares and endless Wishes room,
But thro' the cool sequester'd Vale or Life
Pursue the silent Tenour of thy Doom.

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, who mindful of th' unhonour'd 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 you wood, now smiling as in scorn,
Mutt'ring his wayward fancies he would rove,
Now drooping, woeful-wan, like one forlorn,
Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless love.

One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd 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 in sad array
Slow thro' the church-way path we saw him born. -
Approach. and read (for thou can'st read) the lay,
Grav'd 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 frown'd not on his humble birth,
And Melancholy mark'd him for her own.

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,
Heav'n did a recompence as largely send:
He gave to Mis'ry all he had, a tear,
He gain'd from Heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) 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 God.


イギリスの詩人トーマス・グレイ（1716-1771）の代表作「田舎教会の墓地にて詠める哀歌」。

　この中の一節、「KINDRED SPIRIT」が、『赤毛のアン』に出てくる同じ語句「心の同類」ではいなか、と、カナダで発行になった「THE ANNOTATED ANNE OF GREEN GABLES」（注釈付き『赤毛のアン』）に出ていました。
　そこで、ハワイ州立大学のハミルトン図書館で、本を探して、読んでみました。
　上が、本文です。

　しかし、私が詩を読んだところでは、確かに「KINDRED SPIRIT」という言葉はあるものの、意味が、この詩と『アン』では、まったく異なります。
　詩では、すでに亡くなった若い男に、作者が心を寄せて考えてみたところ、という意味で、この語句が使われています。
　一方、『赤毛のアン』では、アンが魂を同じくする人物を、「心の同類」と呼んでいます。
　同じ語句でも、使い方がまったく異なるように思いますが、いかがでしょうか。
　ご意見をお待ちしてます。
　しかしこの作品は、トーマス・グレイの最も有名な作品であり、『アン』に引用されている『オーローラ・リー』（エリザベス・バーレット・ブラウニング）でも、アンと同様に貧しく学校に行けなかった娘マリアンが、読んでいる作品として登場します。

　本文のテキスト化は、鹿児島県在住の田中弘美様が、ボランティアでテキスト化して下さいました。どうもありがとうございました。
　原書の情報は以下です。

"THE WORKS OF THOMAS GRAY", IN PROSE AND VERSE,
EDITED BY EDMUND GOSSE, NEW YORK, AMS PRESS, 1968
VOL.1 POEMS, JOURNALS, AND ESSAYS,
FROM THE EDITION OF 1884, LONDON

FROM THE HAMILTON LIBRARY OF HAWAII UNIVERSITY

英詩フォトコピー：茅原泰子、英文テキスト化：田中弘美、解説：松本侑子、ホームページ制作協力：鈴木康之
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