Elegy

You Search in Rome for Rome?

By Robert Lowell

You search in Rome for Rome? Oh traveller!

In Rome itself there is no room for Rome, 

a corpse is all its churches put on show,

the Aventine is its own mound and tomb.

There, where the Palatine once towered and reigned,

are medals ruined by the hands of time,

they show how more was lost to chance and time

than Hannibal or Caesar could consume.

The Tiber flows still, but its current guards

a city that has fallen in its grave --

each wave's a woman tearing at her breast.

Oh Rome! From all your beauty, all your grandeur, 

whatever once was firm has fled...what once

was fugitive maintains its permanence.

Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard

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. 

Adonais: An Elegy on the Death of John Keats  (6 out of 55)

By Percy Bysshe Shelley 

I 

       I weep for Adonais—he is dead! 

       Oh, weep for Adonais! though our tears 

       Thaw not the frost which binds so dear a head! 

       And thou, sad Hour, selected from all years 

       To mourn our loss, rouse thy obscure compeers, 

       And teach them thine own sorrow, say: 'With me 

       Died Adonais; till the Future dares 

       Forget the Past, his fate and fame shall be 

An echo and a light unto eternity!' 

II 

       Where wert thou, mighty Mother, when he lay, 

       When thy Son lay, pierc'd by the shaft which flies 

       In darkness? where was lorn Urania 

       When Adonais died? With veiled eyes, 

       'Mid listening Echoes, in her Paradise 

       She sate, while one, with soft enamour'd breath, 

       Rekindled all the fading melodies, 

       With which, like flowers that mock the corse beneath, 

He had adorn'd and hid the coming bulk of Death. 

III 

       Oh, weep for Adonais—he is dead! 

       Wake, melancholy Mother, wake and weep! 

       Yet wherefore? Quench within their burning bed 

       Thy fiery tears, and let thy loud heart keep 

       Like his, a mute and uncomplaining sleep; 

       For he is gone, where all things wise and fair 

       Descend—oh, dream not that the amorous Deep 

       Will yet restore him to the vital air; 

Death feeds on his mute voice, and laughs at our despair. 

IV 

       Most musical of mourners, weep again! 

       Lament anew, Urania! He died, 

       Who was the Sire of an immortal strain, 

       Blind, old and lonely, when his country's pride, 

       The priest, the slave and the liberticide, 

       Trampled and mock'd with many a loathed rite 

       Of lust and blood; he went, unterrified, 

       Into the gulf of death; but his clear Sprite 

Yet reigns o'er earth; the third among the sons of light. 

V 

       Most musical of mourners, weep anew! 

       Not all to that bright station dar'd to climb; 

       And happier they their happiness who knew, 

       Whose tapers yet burn through that night of time 

       In which suns perish'd; others more sublime, 

       Struck by the envious wrath of man or god, 

       Have sunk, extinct in their refulgent prime; 

       And some yet live, treading the thorny road, 

Which leads, through toil and hate, to Fame's serene abode. 

VI 

       But now, thy youngest, dearest one, has perish'd, 

       The nursling of thy widowhood, who grew, 

       Like a pale flower by some sad maiden cherish'd, 

       And fed with true-love tears, instead of dew; 

       Most musical of mourners, weep anew! 

       Thy extreme hope, the loveliest and the last, 

       The bloom, whose petals nipp'd before they blew 

       Died on the promise of the fruit, is waste; 

The broken lily lies—the storm is overpast. 

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