(especially dedicated to Fiberbabe, in the true spirt of the season )

ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD

by Thomas Gray (1716-1771)

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 moping 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 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 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 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 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 history in a nation's eyes,

Their lot forbade: nor circumscribed alone
Their glowing 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 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 rhymes 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 cheerful day,
Nor cast one longing ling'ring 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.

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 yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,
Mutt'ring his wayward fancies he would rove,
Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn,
Or crazed 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 through the church-way path we saw him borne.
Approach and read (for thou canst 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 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 recompense 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.

--Thomas Gray

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Why visit a grave?

(The Cemetaries of Christchurch)

European ancestors, who often saw their small children predecease them and their siblings and contemporaries die in what should have been the prime of life, were frequent visitors to graveyards.

My maternal grandmother, Hilda Jane Gapes, was brought up in Willow Street, across the river from the Barbadoes Street Cemetery. She and her siblings frequently swung across the river on willow trees, fell in and had to scramble out to get to the burial place. Once there they played about the tombstones. On one occasion, Hilda's brother, Reg, climbed into a freshly dug burial plot in an attempt to retrieve a rabbit. He was unable to scramble out and had to be assisted from his place of imprisonment.

My grandmother's grandmother, Elizabeth Swindell, used to clean the younger generation's wounds with salt. This was a very efficient and very painful means of getting children's scratches to heal. In a politically incorrect manner, my grandmother spoke to a cousin about their mutual grandmother being an "old bitch". News got back to the venerable grandparent. As she lay dying, she made my grandmother swear that, once a week, she would lay flowers on the old lady's grave. My grandmother carried out this duty faithfully and, for a decade, visited Elizabeth's resting place at Barbadoes Street. Then, as her wedding day approached, she decided to put aside the childish promise.

Our ancestors' experiences and opinions were picked up by the greatest of writers . Shakespeare described how the gravediggers, at work at Elsinore, unearth the remains of Hamlet's acquaintance from childhood, Yorick. The prince picks up Yorick's skull and muses on the personality of his erstwhile companion.

A famous 18th century poem is Thomas Gray's "Elegy written in a country churchyard". The poem begins at twilight when "the ploughman homeward plods his weary way". He leaves the world to darkness and to Thomas Gray who sits in the country churchyard at Stoke Poges musing over the gravestones and contemplating "the short and simple annals of the poor". A well-known 19th century poem on death and burial is Lord Tennyson's "Ode on the death of the Duke of Wellington".

In Great Expectations Dickens has the young Pip pondering over the gravestones of his parents and tiny siblings. It is there that the boy is seized by the convict, Magwitch, who is later to become his anonymous benefactor.

In Victorian times - and later- Christchurch newspapers carried detailed and often graphic descriptions of deaths, inquests and funerals. Examples of this type of journalism appear in this text.

A visit to a New Zealand graveyard can show us the burial place of our antecedents. A study of the inscriptions on tombstones gives us an idea of how fragile life was among earlier generations in this country. The grand resting places of Richard John Seddon, William Ferguson Massey and Michael Joseph Savage show how, in a previous age, political heavyweights were honoured.

http://library.christchurch.org.nz/Guides/Cemeteries/whyvisit.asp

(just as I was finising this post someone on the TV said, "We are in a grave situtation"!...I swear! )