a four-line stanza with any combination of rhymes.

Elegy Written In A Country Churchyard
Thomas Gray

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 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 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 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 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.

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 history in a nation’s eyes,

Their lot forbad: nor circumscribed alone
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined;
Forbad 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 ev’n 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 th’ 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 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’ unhonoured dead,
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;
If chance, by lonely Contemplation led,
Some kindred spirit shall enquire 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 noon-tide 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 would he rove;
Now drooping, woeful-wan, like one forlorn,
Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love.

“One morn I missed him from the customed 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 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.

A quatrain is a four-line stanza with any combination of rhymes. In Thomas Gray’s “Elegy Written In A Country Churchyard”, each stanza is a quatrain with the rhyme scheme of abab. The quatrains help Gray to travel from one thought to another and from one occurrence to another. The first stanza discusses the ending of a day, while the second stanza talks about the landscape of the scenery that the narrator is looking out at. Gray is able to create an image of what he is writing about in his poem by using the quatrains as introductions to the different things that occur in the poem.

Link: God's Drain

"Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn."

~Thomas Gray

Thomas Gray

       Thomas Gray was born on December 26, 1741 at 41 Cornhill, London, near St. Michael's Church in a small milliner's shop kept by his mother. He was the fifth out of twelve children to Dorothy and Philip Gray, however the only surviving child.
       His father was a "money-scrivener" that had married Dorothy Antrobus in 1709 and moved in the Cornhill house. Philip was very abusive to Dorothy, causing Thomas to have a very troubled childhood. Due to this, Thomas was sent to Eton College in 1725 where his uncle Robert, at Peterhouse, Cambridge, cared for him and his education.
       While at Peterhouse, Gray began to write Latin verse. His habits were studious and reflective. He and his friend Walpole, the son of prime minister Sir Robert Walpole, would send poems to Richard West, whose father was a Lord Chancellor of Ireland, in English and occasionally French and Latin. The three together contributed to hymneals to the marriage of Frederick, Prince of Wales, which later published as Gratulatio in 1739. 
        In 1738, Gray left Peterhouse without having degree. He left to stay with his father in Cornhill, probably to study law at the Inner Temple who admitted him in 1735. However, he inherited a modest property from his aunt Sarah and enjoyed financial freedom.
         Much of the coming years were spent at Peterhouse, reading, studying, taking part in summer tours and surrounding himself with his circle of friends while writing admirable letters. He did not take part in courses at the university, but resided there as a gentleman of leisure and took advantage of the intellectual amenities. 
         While journeying to Switzerland in the summer of 1771, Gray suddenly fell ill. He returned to London, then soon to Cambridge where his health worsened. With an attack of gout in the stomach, his condition became alarming. 
         On July 30, 1771, Gray died in his room. He was laid to rest in the same vault as his mother in the churchyard of St Giles at Stoke Poges on August 6. Exactly seven years later on August 6, 1778 a monument was erected in memory of Thomas Gray in Westminster Abbey. The monument is located in Poets' Corner just Milton's and next to Spenser's, the two poets Gray admired most. In 1799 another monument to Gray's memory was placed adjoining the churchyard at Stoke Poges. Other memorials were set up years later in Eton College and Cambridge.