And now I see with eye serene
    The very pulse of the machine;
    A Being breathing thoughtful breath,
    A Traveller between life and death: 
    The reason firm, the temperate will,
    Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;
    A perfect Woman, nobly planned,
    To warn, to comfort, and command;
    And yet a Spirit still, and bright,
    With something of angelic light.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

 ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD.

“Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard” (Gray, 1716-71).  I once drove from Windsor Castle through Eton, down the long hedge-bound road which passes the estate of William Penn’s descendants to Stoke Pogis, the little churchyard where this poem was written.  They were trimming a great yew-tree under which Gray was said to have written this poem.  The scene is one of peace and quiet.  The “elegy” was a favourite form of poem with the ancients, but Gray is said to have reached the climax among poets in this style of verse.  The great line of the poem is: 

“The path of glory leads but to the grave.”

It would almost seem that poetry has for its greatest mission the
lesson of a proper humility.

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd winds 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, wandering 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 forever 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,
    Await alike th’ inevitable hour. 
      The paths of glory lead but to the grave.