Elegy
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Critics have spent entire books interpreting Grays “Elegy.” Is it ironic, as Cleanth Brooks would have us believe, or is it sentimental, as Samuel Johnson might say? Does it express Grays melancholic democratic feelings about the oneness of human experience from the perspective of death, or does Gray discuss the life and death of another elegist, one who, in his youth, suffered the same obscurity as the “rude forefathers” in the country graveyard? Should Gray have added the final “Epitaph” to his work?
Readers whose memories have made Grays “Elegy” one of the most loved poems in English seem unfazed by these questions. What matters to readers, over time, is the power of “Elegy” to console. Its title describes its function: lamenting someones death, and affirming the life that preceded it so that we can be comforted. One may die after decades of anonymous labour, uneducated, unknown or scarcely remembered, ones potential unrealized, Grays poem says, but that life will have as many joys, and far fewer ill effects on others, than lives of the rich, the powerful, the famous. Also, the great memorials that money can buy do no more for the deceased than a common grave marker. In the end, what counts is friendship, being mourned, being cried for by someone who was close. “He gave to Misry all he had, a tear, / He gaind from Heavn (twas all he wishd) a friend” (123-24). This sentiment, found in the controversial epitaph, affirms what the graveyards lonely visitor says earlier: “On some fond breast the parting soul relies, / Some pious drops the closing eye requires” (89-90). Grays restraint, his habit of speaking in universals rather than particulars, and his shifting from one speaker to another, control the powerful feelings these lines call up. They frame everything at some distance from the viewer.
The poem opens with a death-bell sounding, a knell. The lowing of cattle, the droning of a beetle in flight, the tinkling of sheep-bells, and the owls hooting (stanzas 1-3) mourn the passing of a day, described metaphorically as if it were a person, and then suitably the narrators eye shifts to a human graveyard. From creatures that wind, plod, wheel, and wander, he looks on still, silent “mouldring” heaps, and on turf under a moonlit tower where “The rude forefathers” “sleep” in a “lowly bed.” Gray makes his sunset a truly human death-knell. No morning bird-song, evening family life, or farming duties (stanzas 5-7) will wake, welcome, or occupy them. They have fallen literally under the sickle, the ploughshare, and the axe that they once wielded. They once tilled glebe land, fields owned by the church, but now lie under another church property, the parish graveyard.
This scene remains in memory as the narrator contrasts it with allegorical figures who represent general traits of eighteenth-century humanity: Ambition (29), Grandeur (31), Memory (38), Honour (43), Flattery and Death (44), Knowledge (49), Penury (51), Luxury and Pride (71), Forgetfulness (85), and Nature (91). In shifting from individuals to universal types that characterize the world at large, the poem exchanges country “darkness” for civic and national life. Yet, against expectations, the narrator defends the dead in his remote churchyward cemetery from the contempt of abstractions like Ambition and Grandeur. He makes four arguments. First, the goals of the great, which include aristocratic lineage, beauty, power, wealth, and glory, share the same end as the “rude forefathers,” the grave. The monuments that Memory erects for them (“storied urn or animated bust”), the church anthems sung at their funeral, and the praise of Honour or Flattery before or after death also cannot change that fate. The narrator reduces the important, living and deceased, to the level of the village dead. Secondly, he asks pointedly why, were circumstances different, were they to have been educated with Knowledges “roll” and released from “Chill Penury,” would they not have achieved as much in poetry and politics as did figures like Hampden, Milton, and Cromwell? Thirdly, the narrator suggests that his unimportant, out-of-power country dead lived morally better lives by being untempted to commit murder or act cruelly. Last, “uncouth rhymes,” “shapeless sculpture,” and “many a holy text” that characterize their “frail” cemetery memorials, and even those markers with only a simple name and age at death, “spelt by th unlettered muse” (81), serve the important universal human needs: to prompt “the passing tribute of a sigh” (80) and to “teach the rustic moralist to die” (84).
In the next three stanzas, the narrator — the “me” who with darkness takes over the world at sunset (4) — finally reveals why he is in the cemetery, telling the “artless tale” of the “unhonourd Dead” (93). He is one of them. Like the “rude Forefathers” among whom he is found, the narrator ghost is “to Fortune and to Fame unknown” (118). Like anyone who “This pleasing anxious being eer resigned,” he — in this narrative itself — casts “one longing, lingring look behind” to life (86-88). As he says, “Evn from the tomb the voice of Nature cries” (91). He tells us the literal truth in saying, “Evn in our ashes live their wonted fires” (92). These fires appear in his ashes, which speak this elegy. He anticipates this astounding confession earlier in saying:
Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;
Hands, that the rod of empire might have swayd,
or wakd to ecstasy the living lyre.
As Natures voice from the dead, the “living lyre,” he addresses himself in