Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard
Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard. Methodist DeBakey Cardiovasc J. 14(3):239-240.
For the past 8 years, Dr. Michael W. Lieberman has stirred us with poetry selections from some of the world’s most inspired poets—challenging us to contemplate not just the science of medicine but the humanity as well. With this issue, Dr. Lieberman passes the baton to Dr. James Young, chairman of the Cleveland Clinic Endocrinology & Metabolism Institute and former board member of this journal. Mike, we wish you the very best and salute you for your tireless efforts to engage us with the beauty of the written word. Jim, welcome back! We are excited to see where this journey takes us.
— Miguel A. Quiñones, M.D., M.A.C.C., F.A.S.E.
Editor in Chief
Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard
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 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.
— Thomas Gray
“It is an honor and great pleasure to take over as the section editor of the Methodist DeBakey Cardiovascular Journal “Poets’ Pen” feature. Through this column, we reframe our professional mission of “patients first” by emphasizing that what we do every day is steeped in the humanities—and arguably, poetry is the kingpin of that. Michael E. DeBakey was my mentor, as were many icons of what I knew as The Methodist Hospital, including the Journal’s first and second editors, Drs. William Winters and Miguel Quiñones. What I saw and learned in my nearly 25-year tenure in Houston made me appreciate the humanitarian ideas of our profession, my teachers, and role models. Thus, for my first poem, I have selected Thomas Gray’s “Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard.” This may have been Dr. DeBakey’s favorite poem, and I have come to treasure it as I age and look at the Rubicon coming approaching for me and my friends. It is a poem that has helped me deal with the drama and trauma of so many of my end-stage heart failure patients approaching death. I remember Dr. DeBakey casually chatting about this work during the storied 4 o’clock daily rounds. It was a slow day, and we were discussing the fact that our trainees did not generally have a liberal education that was steeped in the humanities. DeBakey mentioned Gray’s poem and the next day brought in an incredibly beautiful leather-bound early edition and read some of the lines. The ones I remember the best were “One morn I missed him on the customed hill along the heath and near his favorite tree.” I wondered who it was that DeBakey missed so much. A friend? A family member? A loved one? A patient? I hope this first Poets’ Pen selection of my tenure strikes a chord with you in one way or another. After all, that is what poetry is supposed to do.
— James B. Young, M.D., F.A.C.C.
Chief Academic Officer, Cleveland Clinic Health System
Professor of Medicine, Cleveland Clinic Lerner College of Medicine of Case Western Reserve University
George & Linda Kaufman Chair, Heart & Vascular Institute