Thomas Gray English poet b. 1716 d.1771. Classical scholar and professor at Cambridge University. The poem 'Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard' was first published in 1751.
The curfew tolls the knell of
parting day,
The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the
lea,
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 tinklings lull the
distant folds;
Save that from yonder ivy-mantled
tower
The moping owl does to the moon
complain
Of such, as wandering near her
secret bower,
Molest her ancient solitary reign.
Beneath those rugged elms, that
yew-tree's shade,
Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering
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 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 bowed 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
power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth
e'er gave,
Awaits alike the inevitable hour.
The paths of glory lead but to the
grave.
Nor you, ye Proud, impute to these
the fault,
If Memory o'er their tomb no
trophies raise,
Where through 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 Flattery 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 swayed,
Or waked 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 repressed their noble
rage,
And froze the genial current of the
soul.
Full many a gem of purest ray
serene,
The dark unfathomed caves of ocean
bear:
Full many a flower 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.
The applause of listening senates to
command,
The threats of pain and ruin to
despise,
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling
land,
And read their history in a nation's
eyes,
Their lot forbade: nor circumscribed
alone
Their growing virtues, but their
crimes confined;
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 learned to
stray;
Along the cool sequestered vale of
life
They kept the noiseless tenor of
their way.
Yet even these bones from insult to
protect
Some frail memorial still erected
nigh,
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless
sculpture decked,
Implores the passing tribute of a
sigh.
Their name, their years, spelt by
the unlettered 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
resigned,
Left the warm precincts of the
cheerful day,
Nor cast one longing lingering 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 the
unhonoured 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,
'Muttering his wayward fancies he
would rove,
'Now drooping, woeful wan, like one
forlorn,
'Or crazed with care, or crossed in
hopeless love.
'One morn I missed him on the
customed hill,
'Along the heath and near his
favourite 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 through the church-way path we
saw him borne.
'Approach and read (for thou can'st
read) the lay,
'Graved on the stone beneath yon
aged thorn.'
Here rests his head upon the lap
of earth
A youth to fortune and to
fame unknown.
Fair Science frowned not on
his humble birth,
And Melancholy marked him for
her own.
Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,
Heaven did a recompense as largely
send:
He gave to Misery all he had, a
tear,
He gained from Heaven ('twas all he
wished) 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.
