Program #13 Gray's Elegy II

A nest of singing birds. Three centuries of English verse with a doctorate from Joseph.

Gray's Elegy another talk on this poem a poem about us

all telling us all how much we have in common with the dead in Stoke poaches

churchyard beneath those rugged elms that huge

trees shade where he was the in many a moldering heap

each in his narrow cell for ever laid

the rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

Gray is conscious of the waste of potential talent in the poor. He is also conscious of their

inability to commit great crimes.

The applause of listening Senates to command the threats of pain and ruin to

despise to scatter plenty over a smiling land and read their

history in the nation's eyes. Their lot for bad

nor circumscribed alone their growing virtues. But their crimes

confined for badly to wade through slaughter too were thrown out

and shut the gates of mercy on mankind.

Last week we read the first 19 stanzas in them grave reminds the

living of how much they have in common with the dead. He says quite rightly that the

humble dead require memorial should be remembered as human beings no less than the rich and

proud when the rich die. They're no less dead than the poor

the famous are no more alive than the unknown. The poem

starts with the darkening countryside from which the living are departing with the day to

places of rest for the night. They will return tomorrow.

Gracie's the graves of the villagers and contemplates the scenes of life which they will never

know again. He insists that he is justified in writing energy

on them as on the famous. Here lies some who had no opportunity to

use or misuse their talents who were unable to rule or

misrule nations who did not defend their rights on murder flatter and

deceive.

They lived a quiet life of moderation far from the madding

crowd the ignoble strife their sober wishes never

to stray along the cool sequestered vale of life.

They kept the noiseless tend out of their way.

Yet even these bones from insult to protect some

frail memorial still erected NYE with uncouth rhymes

and shapeless sculpture de implores the passing tribute

of a sigh.

But despite their poverty and obscurity these village did have some sort of

memorial. This says Gray's as much as anyone can hope for every

living man and woman every dying man and woman wants to be remembered with love.

Not not just to be forgotten as if he or she had never happened and is of no interest to

anyone still alive at all yet even these bones from

insult to protect some frail memorial still erected nigh

with uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture de

implores the passing tribute of a sigh

their name their years spelt by the unlettered knew

the place of fame and Elegy supply and many a holy

text around he strews that teach the rustic moralist to die.

For who. Don't forget fullness of prey. This pleasing anxious

being resigned left the warm precincts of the cheerful day

nor cast one longing lingering look behind

on some fond breast the parting soul real lives some pious

drops the closing I requires even from the tomb the voice of

nature cries even in our ashes live there

wanted fires.

Last week we noticed Gray's joke about the lifelessness of an animated portrait bust

so it shouldn't come as a surprise to find that he has a sense of humor. He shows it again

now but this is much less bitter. He imagines himself dead

and thought of remembered by the country folk whom he has met from time to time.

He who has compassion to remember the unknown a dead may suddenly be missed by a friend

like himself.

For the WHO mindful of the dead dust in

these lines their artless tale relate if

chance by lonely contemplation led to some kindred spirit shall

inquire thy fate.

One moment the poet was alive keeping a sort of routine the rustics can

rely upon seeing him some time or other from day to day. Then suddenly he doesn't appear.

He's gone from one day to the next. Two days later his funeral

takes place. A few words need to be explained here

by hoary headed Swain Gray means white haired countryman

upland alone means a great expanse of flat grass land on higher

ground to meet the sun upon the upland lawn.

To pour upon means to stare closely at look at from nearby

so to pore upon the brook is to stare closely into the stream.

Wayward means peevish muttering his wayward fancies that is his

peevish imaginings like one full on means like one in

despair.

In these verses we can enjoy a very holy to rightful ability to laugh at himself as he

must seem to the country folk a strange rap kind of person who never does

anything useful doesn't set his hands of the plough doesn't sit with a gentleman in Quarter

Sessions doesn't carry out some trade knows no craft or two or

haply some hoary headed Swain may say after

we seen him at the people of dawn brushing with hasty steps the DO's away to meet

the sun upon the upland lawn where at the foot of yonder nodding

beach that revisits old fantastic roots so high his listless length

at noontide would he stretch and pore upon the brook that babbles

by hard by yon would now smiling as in

scorn muttering his wayward fancies he would roll

now drooping like one full on or

crazed with care or crossed in a hopeless love.

One more and I missed him on the custom hill along the heath and near its

favorite tree.

Another came nor yet beside the real nor up the lawn nor at the

wall.

Was he the next with dirges due

in sad array slow through the church way path. We saw him

board approach and read for thou canst read to the lay

graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn

where scattered oft the earliest of the year by hands unseen are

showers of violets found the red breast loves to build and

warble there and little footsteps lightly print the ground.

Now follows the epitaph which the imaginary friend will see on the poet's gravestone but

here rests his head upon the lap of earth are you to

fortune and to fame unknown fair science frowned

not on his humble and melancholy and marked him for her

own.

Large was his bounty and his soul sincere.

Heaven did a recompense as a largely set and he gave to

misery all he had a tear he

gained from heaven.

It was all he wished.

Our friend no farther seek his merits to

disclose or draw his frailties from their dread abode.

There they are like in trembling hope repose the

bosom of his father and his God.

If we like we can assume that this is what Grace himself wants to be remembered for.

There is not unusual tone to the poem. It's sophisticated and penetrating in its

vision but tolerant Urbin and natural grace sees he

doesn't deceive himself but he is not bitter.

How different is the tone of London by Samuel Johnson this

mournful Truth is everywhere confessed slow

rises worth by poverty and deep press.

But here more slow. Where are all our slaves to go.

Well look some merchandise and smile. So where

one by bribes by flattery is employed the groom retail's the

favors of his lowered great also knows about the dead weight of poverty and

want.

But unlike Johnson he didn't experience it himself. Johnson actually suffered

years of poverty and want. But he wouldn't allow the childe penury to freeze the genial

current of his soul. He fought and won. He spoke for all

striving artists who see help offered and given only to those who have proved that they don't

need it. When he was about to start on his dictionary he waited upon the Earl of

Chesterfield hoping to receive patronage from that my seniors in

1747 a group of London booksellers commission Johnson to write his famous dictionary.

They allowed him the sum of fifteen hundred guineas out of which he had to pay a number of assistants

and the work was full time to complete it. He needed more money. A

prospectus was sent to the Earl of Chesterfield and brought a small sum but whenever

Johnson called on the heiress to credit residence he was steadily met with the words that his lordship was

not at home. Seven years later when the dictionary was about to appear the earl

sent two papers to the periodical of the world praising it. Not

unnaturally somewhat incensed Johnson addressed a letter to his lordship

reminding him seven years my lord had now passed since I waited in your outward

rooms. I was repulsed from your door during which time I have been pushing on my

work through difficulties of which it is useless to complain and have brought it at last

to the verge of publication without one active assistance. One word of carriage

mint or one smile a favor. Such treatment I did not expect for I

never had a patron before. Is not a patron my lord. One

who looks with unconcern on a man struggling for life in the waters and when

he has reached ground incumbant him with help. Johnson was writing of his own

bitter life in 1738 in the lines. This mournful Truth is everywhere

confessed slow rises worth by poverty depressed

this mournful Truth is everywhere accepted. That is the meaning of confessed

accepted. Now here is grey.

But knowledge to their eyes her ample page rich with the spoils of time did

near unroll.

Jill penury repressed their noble rage and

froze the genial current of the soul.

Johnson is involved in his own experience great deeply compassionately

regrets the experience of others. Johnson published London four years before Grace

started his poem. Johnson is less melodious less compressed and gray.

Here's what he himself would have called correct that is every word expresses the

exact appropriate sentence. He also has what he calls strength. That is

he has a complexity of meaning says in verse. What would require more words to be said in

prose. Notice how he varies his rhythm in these two lines. Slow

rises worth by poverty depressed but hear more slow.

We're all slaves to gold. Four syllables to I am

Bix slow rises worth slow doesn't bear the metrical stress

that. But then we have but here more slow and

here it has the metric of stress. Johnson's lines ought to

sound better. He knows about it as a ration involved music's love slave

gold but we don't have a really melodious statement from him.

Slow rises worth by poverty the

press compare it with this chill

penury repressed their noble rage.

Johnson's line is powerful. Grace has melody.

What about the super felicity of full many a gem of purest

ray serene the dark on Fathom caves of ocean bass.

Full many a flower is born to blush unseen and wasted

sweetness on the desert air.

That last line is almost unbelievable in doing so much so simply and

waste its sweetness on the desert. No it is waste its

sweetness the W and that it's sweet.

And listen to this.

And the wasted sweetness on the desert air and the desert is a

waste.

The flour wastes its sweetness in the desert its sweet scent is wasted.

Where there is no one to smell it the air of the desert absorbs it. Gray is a

poet in his ability to say much in few words. He seems so simple because he

works with such economy to scatter plenty or a smiling land a

smiling land. A typical example of 18th century cliches we might being cautious

enough to comment but think about scattering plenty abundance without niggardly

reserve or restraint over a land which is a smiling landscape and is full of

happy people. No groans no complaints no agony no death no

evictions No riots no floods fires terrifying human or natural

storms to scatter plenty on a smiling land. No

one can read much of the elegy without noticing Gray's 18th century habit of

imagining personifications the breezy call of incense breathing more on

let not ambition Mark nor grandeur are here we might

say the ambitious and the Grand. Yet for me

this would be vague. My ambition gives me a more vivid concrete thought.

So does no grand you're here and of course so does the breezy

call of incense breathing moan. I have an image of them one as a personification

fused with the image of a real morning in the countryside smelling sweet and fresh.

You may remember that last week I explained how grey has here an ethical book Mind of Milton's

Paradise Lost in which Adam and Eve joined their articulate with a ship to the

silent praise of literally sweet fresh smell sent by all plant life up to

heaven at the break of day and a breeze in Bray's time was defined

by one eighteenth century dictionary as a fresh puff of wind. You can

find example after example of the felicity with which Gray communicates through his personifications.

But knowledge through their eyes chilled penury repressed can on

as voice provoke the silent dust all flatteries the dull

codea of death. Earlier today I compared some lines by

Samuel Johnson to some from this Elegy. Both men are typical of the 18th century.

If ever a false word was spoken of the eighteenth century it was to the effect that 18th century art of

every kind is unemotional. The age of can totter of opera of

overwhelmingly emotional tragic acting of tear jerking tragedies and sentimental

comedy. Craze lines seem so simple

they run so smoothly and melodiously that we might make the mistake of finding in them nothing but

restraint. We might miss the emotion but listen to the whole poem now.

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day

the lowing herd winds slowly over the leaves. The

ploughman 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 tingling love the

distant.

Save that from yonder Ivy mantled tower. The moping owl dolls to the

moon complain of such as wondering near her secret Bower

molest ancient solitary raid.

Beneath those rugged elms that huge trees shade where

he was the Finn many a moldering 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 Twittering from the

straw built shed the cocks shrill clarion call the echoing horn

No more shall rouse them from their lonely bed.

For them no more the blazing heart shall burn or busy

housewife plying her evening care. No children run to this

their sires return or climb his knees.

The envied case to share oft did the

harvest to their sickle yield their furrow off to the stubborn Glebe

has broke how jocund did they drive their team afield How

about the woods beneath their sturdy stroke.

Let not ambition. Mark their useful toil their

homely joys and destiny obscure nor grandeur

here with a disdainful smile.

The short and simple annals of the poor are

the boast of heraldry.

The pomp of power and all that beauty all that welfare gave

awaits a like the inevitable our Paths of

Glory lead but to the grave.

Know you your proud impute to these the fault if memory or they are to no

trophies raise where through the long drawn Island fretted for all the peeling

anthems wails the note of praise Can story to

turn or animated bust back to its mention called the fleeting breath

can owner's voice provoke the silent dust or flattery

to 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

swayed or waked to ecstasy.

The living lie.

But knowledge to their eyes her ample page rich with the spoils of time did

near unroll chill penury repressed to their noble

rage and froze the genial current of the soul

full many a gem of purest ray serene in the dark on Fathom caves of

ocean bare for many a flower is born to blush

unseen and waste its sweetness on the desert air.

Some village Hampton that with don't loose breast to the little tyrant of his

fields withstood some mute inglorious Milton

here may rest some Cromwell guiltless of his

country's blood. The applause of listening

Senates to command the threats of pain and ruin to despise to

scatter plenty over a smiling land and read their history in the nation's

eyes. Their lot for bad nor

circumscribed alone their growing virtues. But their crimes

confined for badly to wade through slaughter too were thrown out

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

Muses flame.

Far From The Madding Crowd the ignoble strife their sober

wishes never learned to stray along with

sequestered the veil of life. They kept the noiseless tenor of

their way. Yet even these bones from

insult to protect some frail memorial still erected NYE

with uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture de

implores the passing tribute of a sigh

their name their years spelt by the unlettered knew

the place of fame and Elegy supply and many a holy

text around who strews that teach the rustic moralist to die

for who don't forget fulness I pray this pleasing anxious

being heir resigned left the warm precincts of the cheerful day

nor cast one longing lingering look behind

on some fond breast the parting soul realize some pious

drops the closing I requires even from the tomb the voice of

nature cries even in our ashes live there

wanted fires.

For the WHO mindful of the ANA dead.

Dust in these lines their artless tale relate if

chance by a lonely contemplation led to some kindred spirit shall

inquire thy fate haply some hoary headed

Swain may say after Have we seen him of the people of

dawn brushing with hasty steps the DO's away to meet the sun upon the

upland lawn where at the foot of yonder nodding beech that

revisit old fantastic roots so high his listless length at

noontide would he stretch and pour upon the brook that babbles by

heart by yon would now smiling as in scorn muttering

his wayward fancies he would rove now drooping

like one full on or crazed with care or crossed in a hopeless

love.

One more and I missed him on the custom hill along the heath and near its

favorite tree.

Another came nor yet beside the real nor up the lawn nor at the

wood.

Was he the next with dirges do you

in sad array slow through the church way path. We saw him

born approach and read for thou canst read of the lay

graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn

where scattered oft the earliest of the year by hands unseen are

showers of violets found the red breast loves to build and

warble there and little footsteps lightly print the ground.

The epitaph here

rests his head upon the lap of earth for you to

fortune and to fame unknown fair science frowned

not on his humble birth and melancholy it marked him for her

own large was his bounty and his soul

sincere.

Heaven did a recompense as a largely set and gave to

misery all he had.

A tear he gained from heaven was all he

wished.

Our friend no farther seek his merits to

disclose or draw his frailties from their dread abode

where they are alike in trembling hope repose the

bosom of his father and his God.

Where ever you read Ray's poem you find some felicitous melody

the vowels and consonants make music.

Listen to the music of this oft did the harvest to their sickle

yield their photo off to the stubborn Glebe has broke how

jocund did they drive their team afield. How bout the woods

beneath their sturdy stroke. There are wonderful sounds in this.

Full many a gem of purest ray serene in the dark on Fathom caves of ocean

bare for many a flower is born to blush unseen

and waste its sweetness on the desert air.

Now for some more music in this one more and I missed

him on the custom hill along the heath and near his favorite tree.

Another came nor yet beside the real nor up the lawn nor at the

wood was he.

And now let's hear our epitaph again.

We have a tower here

rests his head upon the lap of Earth.

Are you to fortune and to fame unknown where science

frowned not on his humble birth and melancholy and mocked him for

her own.

Large was his bounty and his so sincere

have to recompense as a largely say and he gave to

misery.

He had a tear he gained from heaven

was all he wished.

A friend no father seek his merits to

disclose or draw his frailties from their dread abode

where they are like in trembling hope repose the

bosom of his father and his God.

You have been listening to the second of two talks on Gray's Elegy praise verse was read by

Jonathan Farwell Sarah Farber read the passage from Johnson's London.

Joseph inviting you to be with us again next week.

This program was produced by a radio broadcast services of a University of Washington under a

grant from the Corporation for Public Broadcasting.

This is the national educational radio network.