At age 80+, I am almost in tears recalling that in 1954 or 1955, my father took us to see the grave of Thomas Gray's mother, where the poet is supposed to have written (part of) his immortal poem.
We studied this poem in High School as part of our literature class. I was 14 or 15 years old but it had a strange effect on me and I have never forgotten it since. It moves me like no other poem.
I'm glad it brought back memories for you. I found certain parts of the poem very difficult to visualise. The other poems I have videoed were much easier.😊
The most eloquent dirge ever written on death and mourning, its lament on the brevity of life and happiness is painfully melancholic, but the poignancy of the prose is redeemed by the intense brilliance of each refulgent sentence, allowing us to emotionally walk through this cemetery of shadowy thoughts and dreary expressions, without ever losing our requiem of spiritual delight.
Whew! Your powerful images bring these sober words to life. I’m 75, and was led here to your churchyard as I’m reflecting and writing about the stuff in this masterpiece…. Thank you!
Thank you for adding voice, pictures, and music to this poem. I am sure like me, this will help many students that need to remember the meaning of this poem for their class.
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.
Magnificent delivery of a poetic masterpiece. One can imagine the inspiration and emotion Thomas Gray experienced as he composed this poem in the solitude of an ancient cemetery as the day drew to an end. Just wonderful. !!
Thanks for that. It was difficult trying to visualise some of the verses as they can be very cryptic. Glad you enjoyed it. I intend to have a go with Wordsworth's Lonely as a Cloud but I have to visit the Lake District in Spring for that.
I lived in the U.K. for 3 1/2 years and the Lake District was one of the places I wanted to go, but was not able to. I cannot wait to see a video from it when you are able to go and compile one.
You went to so much effort to put together this marvelous poem. Thank you (it's people like you who make UA-cam the destination that it is on the net) Cheers!
Hello, By good chance, I came across your presentation of a poem of which I knew the title, but not the content. Now I've heard the poignant words so well spoken, with relevant accompanying visuals, I'll be sure to come back to it. Thank you.
Syd, I was inspired to share your video on my Facebook page with the accompanying text. Again, a heartfelt thank you for this. Don J Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard - Thomas Gray Samuel Johnson, who knew Gray but did not like his poetry, praised the poem when he wrote in his Life of Gray (1779) that it "abounds with images which find a mirror in every breast; and with sentiments to which every bosom returns an echo. The four stanzas beginning 'Yet even these bones,' are to me original: I have never seen the notions in any other place; yet he that reads them here, persuades himself that he has always felt them." I love that ninth stanza: 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. Just so. And note that line "the short and simple annals of the poor." When he was a candidate for President Abraham Lincoln was asked about his boyhood years. And he answered, “Why, it is a great piece of folly to attempt to make anything out of my early life. It can all be condensed into a single sentence, and that sentence you will find in Gray's ‘Elegy’-‘The short and simple annals of the poor.' ” Thomas Hardy took his book title "Far From the Madding Crowd" from Gray's Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard. 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. "Madding" means "frenzied" here. Also a shout out to Carl Manning for referencing the movie title "Paths of Glory." In an email he wondered if the title came from the ninth stanza of Gray's 'Elegy.' Indeed it did. I confirmed this by doing a search on Google. The movie was based on Humphrey Cobb's novel "Paths of Glory" written in 1935. From Wikipedia: Cobb's novel had no title when it was finished, so the publisher held a contest. The winning entry came from the ninth stanza of the Thomas Gray 1751 poem "Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard." 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.
Beautifully presented, I really appreciate it 😀very beautiful creations with awesome voice and I love this elegy so it's really making me awesome feeling thank u and plzz reply 🙂
I cannot remember the title and I have deleted the individual files. I downloaded the piece from Musopen but that will not help you as they hold thousands of classical pieces.
I added music because it is a video. Not a rendition only. The video sets an atmosphere as well as a visualization and so does the music. I try to strike a balance of audio and visual, which I try to do on other videos in my collection. Sorry it spoilt it for you.
I've just checked but all my clips are now deleted so I can't get it from the filming sequence. East Knoyle doesn't ring a bell but I could be wrong. It was certainly in a churchyard but we visited so many around Hampshire, many of which did not make the final cut.
Excellent, very professional and well edited. Gray's Elegy has been on my 'hit-list' for some time - ah well, best cross it off now.Who did the reading?
Alexander Scourby. He was an American voice actor. Dead now. I wanted to record the words myself but I don't know anyone with the right voice. Certainly not me. Glad you liked it. Took a long time travelling round getting the shots I wanted. Even got me and my dog on it.
I wish I could. The music I use is normally stored on my computer but for some reason I have lost this piece so I am unsure what it is. I can't search the internet because the speech interferes with the sound. If I find it I will let you know.
I downloaded the audio from the internet but deleted the clip after I had dubbed it onto my video, before I had written the name down. He should be credited on my video but I can't find the clip again. I really must try another search.
Found him. Thanks for reminding me to do this. He is now credited. Alexander Scourby was an American film, television, and voice actor known for his deep and resonant voice. Wikipedia Born: 13 November 1913, Brooklyn, New York City, New York, United States Died: 22 February 1985, Connecticut, United States
At age 80+, I am almost in tears recalling that in 1954 or 1955, my father took us to see the grave of Thomas Gray's mother, where the poet is supposed to have written (part of) his immortal poem.
I am glad it brought back happy memories for you.
We studied this poem in High School as part of our literature class. I was 14 or 15 years old but it had a strange effect on me and I have never forgotten it since. It moves me like no other poem.
I'm glad it brought back memories for you. I found certain parts of the poem very difficult to visualise. The other poems I have videoed were much easier.😊
This is my favorite poem. I still get shivers when I listen to this video ❤❤
One of my favorite poems. Love your presentation. One of the best.
Thank you.
The most eloquent dirge ever written on death and mourning, its lament on the brevity of life and happiness is painfully melancholic, but the poignancy of the prose is redeemed by the intense brilliance of each refulgent sentence, allowing us to emotionally walk through this cemetery of shadowy thoughts and dreary expressions, without ever losing our requiem of spiritual delight.
The best video of this poem. I love the voice who read the elegy.
Thank you Leia. I have a couple more poems on my channel you may also like.
Fantastic, I have always have loved Alexander Scourby's interpretation of classic poems . I love to recite the first lines of this classic at dusk .
I am from India 🇮🇳. Very good quality of the video and nice voice.
Thank you.
Whew! Your powerful images bring these sober words to life. I’m 75, and was led here to your churchyard as I’m reflecting and writing about the stuff in this masterpiece…. Thank you!
I'm pleased it struck a chord with you. Thank you.
This is beautiful.
Thank you for adding voice, pictures, and music to this poem. I am sure like me, this will help many students that need to remember the meaning of this poem for their class.
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.
شكراااااااااااا♥️♥️
Magnificent delivery of a poetic masterpiece. One can imagine the inspiration and emotion Thomas Gray experienced as he composed this poem in the solitude of an ancient cemetery as the day drew to an end. Just wonderful. !!
One of my favourites but very difficult to visualise.
Beautifully read. You have my admiration and my thanks.
By far the best video with this poem. I love this poem. Perfect.
Thanks for that. It was difficult trying to visualise some of the verses as they can be very cryptic. Glad you enjoyed it. I intend to have a go with Wordsworth's Lonely as a Cloud but I have to visit the Lake District in Spring for that.
I lived in the U.K. for 3 1/2 years and the Lake District was one of the places I wanted to go, but was not able to. I cannot wait to see a video from it when you are able to go and compile one.
It may be next year as I am doing Wales and Europe this year. If you subscribe you will be notified when it is posted.
My favourite poem. Voice of my teacher still echoes in my ears after 13 years 🙏
All paths of greatness lead, but to the grave.
Very true.
Brings the poem to life, certainly
Thank you.
I've started memorizing this poem, so ... thanks for a beautiful rendition, a lovely video, and a source of inspiration regarding interpretation.
Thanks Christine. As you know, some of the lines are difficult to visualise.
Such a masterpiece!
You went to so much effort to put together this marvelous poem. Thank you (it's people like you who make UA-cam the destination that it is on the net) Cheers!
Thank you for those kind comments. Its always gratifying to know people enjoy my videos.
Hello,
By good chance, I came across your presentation of a poem of which I knew the title, but not the content.
Now I've heard the poignant words so well spoken, with relevant accompanying visuals, I'll be sure to come back to it.
Thank you.
Glad you enjoyed it. It was difficult to put into pictures. Some very deep meanings.
This was wonderful, thank-you
Glad you enjoyed it.
Beautiful 🖤
Stunning. Sad that the teaching of poetry is now about how it rhyme scheme is rather than its meaning.
You explained and best voice very good
Its so peaceful
Magnificent! Thank you.
Glad you enjoyed it.
Syd, I was inspired to share your video on my Facebook page with the accompanying text. Again, a heartfelt thank you for this. Don J
Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard - Thomas Gray
Samuel Johnson, who knew Gray but did not like his poetry, praised the poem when he wrote in his Life of Gray (1779) that it "abounds with images which find a mirror in every breast; and with sentiments to which every bosom returns an echo. The four stanzas beginning 'Yet even these bones,' are to me original: I have never seen the notions in any other place; yet he that reads them here, persuades himself that he has always felt them."
I love that ninth stanza:
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.
Just so.
And note that line "the short and simple annals of the poor." When he was a candidate for President Abraham Lincoln was asked about his boyhood years. And he answered, “Why, it is a great piece of folly to attempt to make anything out of my early life. It can all be condensed into a single sentence, and that sentence you will find in Gray's ‘Elegy’-‘The short and simple annals of the poor.' ”
Thomas Hardy took his book title "Far From the Madding Crowd" from Gray's Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard.
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.
"Madding" means "frenzied" here.
Also a shout out to Carl Manning for referencing the movie title "Paths of Glory." In an email he wondered if the title came from the ninth stanza of Gray's 'Elegy.' Indeed it did. I confirmed this by doing a search on Google. The movie was based on Humphrey Cobb's novel "Paths of Glory" written in 1935.
From Wikipedia:
Cobb's novel had no title when it was finished, so the publisher held a contest. The winning entry came from the ninth stanza of the Thomas Gray 1751 poem "Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard."
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.
So glad you enjoyed it Don. Very thought provoking but difficult to put into pictures.
i love it
Beautifully presented, I really appreciate it 😀very beautiful creations with awesome voice and I love this elegy so it's really making me awesome feeling thank u and plzz reply 🙂
Thanks Yashoda. So glad you enjoyed it. The filming took ages as it was difficult to visualise some of the dialogue.
Very nice Sir
Thank you Jayshree.
Excellent video. Thanks for sharing. What is the title of the piece of music accompanying the text?
I cannot remember the title and I have deleted the individual files. I downloaded the piece from Musopen but that will not help you as they hold thousands of classical pieces.
A lovely rendition but why the background music - surely your wonderful voice does full justice to this masterpiece.
I added music because it is a video. Not a rendition only. The video sets an atmosphere as well as a visualization and so does the music. I try to strike a balance of audio and visual, which I try to do on other videos in my collection. Sorry it spoilt it for you.
@@SydHutchinson Wonderful anyway certainly didn't spoil it.
The building you show at 1:10, is it, by any chance, at East Knoyle?
I've just checked but all my clips are now deleted so I can't get it from the filming sequence. East Knoyle doesn't ring a bell but I could be wrong. It was certainly in a churchyard but we visited so many around Hampshire, many of which did not make the final cut.
The greatest poem in the English language
I agree but I have done some others on here. How about Keats and Burns? I fancy doing The Raven by Poe but I need some tame ravens 🙂
Excellent, very professional and well edited. Gray's Elegy has been on my 'hit-list' for some time - ah well, best cross it off now.Who did the reading?
Ah, just seen the reply from nine months ago. Silly Richard!
Alexander Scourby. He was an American voice actor. Dead now. I wanted to record the words myself but I don't know anyone with the right voice. Certainly not me. Glad you liked it. Took a long time travelling round getting the shots I wanted. Even got me and my dog on it.
What is the music?
You are not the first to ask. I cannot remember and the file I had was deleted from my computer.
Can you tell me about the music piece?
I wish I could. The music I use is normally stored on my computer but for some reason I have lost this piece so I am unsure what it is. I can't search the internet because the speech interferes with the sound. If I find it I will let you know.
where is those place sir?
I filmed the video around Hampshire in the UK.
Who is doing the reading voice?
I downloaded the audio from the internet but deleted the clip after I had dubbed it onto my video, before I had written the name down. He should be credited on my video but I can't find the clip again. I really must try another search.
Found him. Thanks for reminding me to do this. He is now credited.
Alexander Scourby was an American film, television, and voice actor known for his deep and resonant voice. Wikipedia
Born: 13 November 1913, Brooklyn, New York City, New York, United States
Died: 22 February 1985, Connecticut, United States
The loud music is so annoying
Your the first person to say that. Most people love it. Thanks for your feedback.
Music is too fucking loud
You are the only person to say that. Most others enjoyed it.
Story in Tamil translate
Elegy written in the country churchyard