# 21... More on elegies

In addition to what was covered in class here is another piece of information I found on elegies...

Other elegies observe no set patterns or conventions. In the 18th century the English *“graveyard school” of poets wrote generalized reflections on death and immortality, combining gloomy, sometimes ghoulish imagery of human impermanence with philosophical speculation.

Representative works are Edward Young's Night Thoughts (1742–45) and Robert Blair's Grave (1743), but the best known of these poems is Thomas Gray's more tastefully subdued creation “An Elegy Written in a Country Church Yard” (1751), which pays tribute to the generations of humble and unknown villagers buried in a church cemetery. In the United States, a counterpart to the graveyard mode is found in William Cullen Bryant's “Thanatopsis” (1817). A wholly new treatment of the conventional pathetic fallacy of attributing grief to nature is achieved in Walt Whitman's “When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd” (1865–66).

elegy. (2010). In Encyclopædia Britannica. Retrieved March 17, 2010, from Encyclopædia Britannica Online: http://search.eb.com/eb/article-9032350


* “graveyard school” genre of 18th-century British poetry that focused on death and bereavement. The graveyard school consisted largely of imitations of Robert Blair's popular long poem of morbid appeal, The Grave (1743), and of Edward Young's celebrated blank-verse dramatic rhapsody Night Thoughts (1742–45). These poems express the sorrow and pain of bereavement, evoke the horror of death's physical manifestations, and suggest the transitory nature of human life. The meditative, philosophical tendencies of graveyard poetry found their fullest expression in Thomas Gray's “An Elegy Written in a Country Church Yard” (1751). The poem is a dignified, gently melancholy elegy celebrating the graves of humble and unknown villagers and suggesting that the lives of rich and poor alike “lead but to the grave.” The works of the graveyard school were significant as early precursors of the Romantic Movement.

graveyard school. (2010). In Encyclopædia Britannica. Retrieved March 17, 2010, from Encyclopædia Britannica Online: http://search.eb.com/eb/article-9037789

Below are two of the poems that were referred to in the excerpts from Encyclopædia Britannica.

An 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 glimm'ring 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 Mem'ry o'er their tomb no trophies raise,
Where thro' 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 wak'd 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 flow'r 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 forbade: nor circumscrib'd alone
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd;
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 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 borne.
Approach and read (for thou canst 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 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.

To gain greater insight on this poem click here.

~~~~~ . ~~~~~ ~~~~~ . ~~~~~ ~~~~~ . ~~~~~

When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd
by Walt Whitman

¹ WHEN lilacs last in the door-yard bloom'd,

And the great star early droop'd in the western sky in the night,

I mourn'd…and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring.

2 O ever-returning spring! trinity sure to me you bring;

Lilac blooming perennial, and drooping star in the west,

And thought of him I love.

2

3 O powerful, western, fallen star!

O shades of night! O moody, tearful night!

O great star disappear'd! O the blank murk that hides the star!

O cruel hands that hold me powerless! O helpless soul of me!

O harsh surrounding cloud that will not free my soul!

3

4 In the door-yard fronting an old farm-house, near the white-wash'd palings,

Stands the lilac bush, tall-growing, with heart-shaped leaves of rich green,

With many a pointed blossom, rising, delicate, with the perfume strong I love,

With every leaf a miracle……and from this bush in the door-yard,

With its delicate-color'd blossoms, and heart-shaped leaves of rich green,

A sprig, with its flower, I break.

4

5 In the swamp, in secluded recesses,

A shy and hidden bird is warbling a song.

6 Solitary, the thrush,

The hermit, withdrawn to himself, avoiding the settlements,

Sings by himself a song.

7 Song of the bleeding throat!

Death's outlet song of life—(for well, dear brother, I know,

If thou wast not gifted to sing, thou would'st surely die.)

5

8 Over the breast of the spring, the land, amid cities,

Amid lanes, and through old woods, (where lately the violets peep'd from the ground, spotting the gray debris;)

Amid the grass in the fields each side of the lanes—passing the endless grass;

Passing the yellow-spear'd wheat, every grain from its shroud in the dark-brown fields uprising;

Passing the apple-tree blows of white and pink in the orchards;

Carrying a corpse to where it shall rest in the grave,

Night and day journeys a coffin.

6

9 Coffin that passes through lanes and streets,

Through day and night, with the great cloud darkening the land,

With the pomp of the inloop'd flags, with the cities draped in black,

With the show of the States themselves, as of crape-veil'd women, standing,

With processions long and winding, and the flambeaus of the night,

With the countless torches lit—with the silent sea of faces, and the unbared heads,

With the waiting depot, the arriving coffin, and the sombre faces,

With dirges through the night, with the thousand voices rising strong and solemn;

With all the mournful voices of the dirges, pour'd around the coffin,

The dim-lit churches and the shuddering organs—Where amid these you journey,

With the tolling, tolling bells' perpetual clang;

Here! coffin that slowly passes.

I give you my sprig of lilac.

7

10 (Nor for you, for one, alone;

Blossoms and branches green to coffins all I bring:

For fresh as the morning—thus would I chant a song for you, O sane and sacred death.

11 All over bouquets of roses,

O death! I cover you over with roses and early lilies;

But mostly and now the lilac that blooms the first,

Copious, I break, I break the sprigs from the bushes:

With loaded arms I come, pouring for you,

For you and the coffins all of you, O death.)

8

12 O western orb, sailing the heaven!

Now I know what you must have meant, as a month since we walk'd,

As we walk'd up and down in the dark blue so mystic,

As we walk'd in silence the transparent shadowy night,

As I saw you had something to tell, as you bent to me night after night,

As you droop'd from the sky low down, as if to my side, (while the other stars all look'd on;)

As we wander'd together the solemn night, (for something I know not what, kept me from sleep;)

As the night advanced, and I saw on the rim of the west, ere you went, how full you were of woe;

As I stood on the rising ground in the breeze, in the cool transparent night,

As I watch'd where you pass'd and was lost in the nether- ward black of the night,

As my soul, in its trouble, dissatisfied, sank, as where you, sad orb,

Concluded, dropt in the night, and was gone.

9

13 Sing on, there in the swamp!

O singer bashful and tender! I hear your notes—I hear your call;

I hear—I come presently—I understand you;

But a moment I linger—for the lustrous star has detain'd me;

The star, my comrade, departing, holds and detains me.

10

14 O how shall I warble myself for the dead one there I loved?

And how shall I deck my song for the large sweet soul that has gone?

And what shall my perfume be, for the grave of him I love?

15 Sea-winds, blown from east and west,

Blown from the eastern sea, and blown from the western sea, till there on the prairies meeting:

These, and with these, and the breath of my chant,

I perfume the grave of him I love.

11

16 O what shall I hang on the chamber walls?

And what shall the pictures be that I hang on the walls,

To adorn the burial-house of him I love?

17 Pictures of growing spring, and farms, and homes,

With the Fourth-month eve at sundown, and the gray-smoke lucid and bright,

With floods of the yellow gold of the gorgeous, indolent, sinking sun, burning, expanding the air;

With the fresh sweet herbage under foot, and the pale green leaves of the trees prolific;

In the distance the flowing glaze, the breast of the river, with a wind-dapple here and there;

With ranging hills on the banks, with many a line against the sky, and shadows;

And the city at hand, with dwellings so dense, and stacks of chimneys,

And all the scenes of life, and the workshops, and the workmen homeward returning.

12

18 Lo! body and soul! this land!

Mighty Manhattan, with spires, and the sparkling and hur- rying tides, and the ships;

The varied and ample land—the South and the North in the light—Ohio's shores, and flashing Missouri,

And ever the far-spreading prairies, cover'd with grass and corn.

19 Lo! the most excellent sun, so calm and haughty;

The violet and purple morn, with just-felt breezes:

The gentle, soft-born, measureless light;

The miracle, spreading, bathing all—the fulfill'd noon;

The coming eve, delicious—the welcome night, and the stars,

Over my cities shining all, enveloping man and land.

13

20 Sing on! sing on, you gray-brown bird!

Sing from the swamps, the recesses—pour your chant from the bushes;

Limitless out of the dusk, out of the cedars and pines.

21 Sing on, dearest brother—warble your reedy song;

Loud human song, with voice of uttermost woe.

22 O liquid, and free, and tender!

O wild and loose to my soul! O wondrous singer!

You only I hear……yet the star holds me, (but will soon depart;)

Yet the lilac, with mastering odor, holds me.

14

23 Now while I sat in the day, and look'd forth,

In the close of the day, with its light, and the fields of spring, and the farmer preparing his crops,

In the large unconscious scenery of my land, with its lakes and forests,

In the heavenly aerial beauty, (after the perturb'd winds, and the storms;)

Under the arching heavens of the afternoon swift passing, and the voices of children and women,

The many-moving sea-tides,—and I saw the ships how they sail'd,

And the summer approaching with richness, and the fields all busy with labor,

And the infinite separate houses, how they all went on, each with its meals and minutia of daily usages;

And the streets, how their throbbings throbb'd, and the cities pent,—lo! then and there,

Falling among them all, and upon them all, enveloping me with the rest,

Appear'd the cloud, appear'd the long black trail;

And I knew Death, its thought, and the sacred knowledge of death.

15

24 Then with the knowledge of death as walking one side of me,

And the thought of death close-walking the other side of me,

And I in the middle, as with companions, and as holding the hands of companions,

I fled forth to the hiding receiving night, that talks not,

Down to the shores of the water, the path by the swamp in the dimness,

To the solemn shadowy cedars, and ghostly pines so still.

25 And the singer so shy to the rest receiv'd me;

The gray-brown bird I know, receiv'd us comrades three;

And he sang what seem'd the song of death, and a verse for him I love.

26 From deep secluded recesses,

From the fragrant cedars, and the ghostly pines so still,

Came the singing of the bird.

27 And the charm of the singing rapt me,

As I held, as if by their hands, my comrades in the night;

And the voice of my spirit tallied the song of the bird.

16

28 Come, lovely and soothing Death,

Undulate round the world, serenely arriving, arriving,

In the day, in the night, to all, to each,

Sooner or later, delicate Death.

29 Prais'd be the fathomless universe,

For life and joy, and for objects and knowledge curious;

And for love, sweet love—But praise! O praise and praise,

For the sure-enwinding arms of cool-enfolding Death.

30 Dark Mother, always gliding near, with soft feet,

Have none chanted for thee a chant of fullest welcome?

Then I chant it for thee—I glorify thee above all;

I bring thee a song that when thou must indeed come, come unfalteringly.

31 Approach, encompassing Death—strong Deliveress!

When it is so—when thou hast taken them, I joyously sing the dead,

Lost in the loving, floating ocean of thee,

Laved in the flood of thy bliss, O Death.

32 From me to thee glad serenades,

Dances for thee I propose, saluting thee—adornments and feastings for thee;

And the sights of the open landscape, and the high-spread sky, are fitting,

And life and the fields, and the huge and thoughtful night.

33 The night, in silence, under many a star;

The ocean shore, and the husky whispering wave, whose voice I know;

And the soul turning to thee, O vast and well-veil'd Death,

And the body gratefully nestling close to thee.

34 Over the tree-tops I float thee a song!

Over the rising and sinking waves—over the myriad fields, and the prairies wide;

Over the dense-pack'd cities all, and the teeming wharves and ways,

I float this carol with joy, with joy to thee, O Death!

17

35 To the tally of my soul,

Loud and strong kept up the gray-brown bird,

With pure, deliberate notes, spreading, filling the night.

36 Loud in the pines and cedars dim,

Clear in the freshness moist, and the swamp-perfume;

And I with my comrades there in the night.

37 While my sight that was bound in my eyes unclosed,

As to long panoramas of visions.

18

38 I saw the vision of armies;

And I saw, as in noiseless dreams, hundreds of battle-flags;

Borne through the smoke of the battles, and pierc'd with missiles, I saw them,

And carried hither and yon through the smoke, and torn and bloody;

And at last but a few shreds of the flags left on the staffs, (and all in silence,)

And the staffs all splinter'd and broken.

39 I saw battle-corpses, myriads of them,

And the white skeletons of young men—I saw them;

I saw the debris and debris of all dead soldiers;

But I saw they were not as was thought;

They themselves were fully at rest—they suffer'd not;

The living remain'd and suffer'd—the mother suffer'd,

And the wife and the child, and the musing comrade suf- fer'd,

And the armies that remain'd suffer'd.

19

40 Passing the visions, passing the night;

Passing, unloosing the hold of my comrades' hands;

Passing the song of the hermit bird, and the tallying song of my soul,

Victorious song, death's outlet song, (yet varying, ever- altering song,

As low and wailing, yet clear the notes, rising and falling, flooding the night,

Sadly sinking and fainting, as warning and warning, and yet again bursting with joy,)

Covering the earth, and filling the spread of the heaven,

As that powerful psalm in the night I heard from recesses.

20

41 Must I leave thee, lilac with heart-shaped leaves?

Must I leave thee there in the door-yard, blooming, return- ing with spring?

42 Must I pass from my song for thee;

From my gaze on thee in the west, fronting the west, com- muning with thee,

O comrade lustrous, with silver face in the night?

21

43 Yet each I keep, and all;

The song, the wondrous chant of the gray-brown bird, I keep,

And the tallying chant, the echo arous'd in my soul, I keep,

With the lustrous and drooping star, with the countenance full of woe;

With the lilac tall, and its blossoms of mastering odor;

Comrades mine, and I in the midst, and their memory ever I keep—for the dead I loved so well;

For the sweetest, wisest soul of all my days and lands… and this for his dear sake;

Lilac and star and bird, twined with the chant of my soul,

With the holders holding my hand, nearing the call of the bird,

There in the fragrant pines, and the cedars dusk and dim.

For more on this poem and other Walt Whitman poems click here.

Or to read a criticism of this piece click here.