POEMS AND POETS
22. THOMAS GRAY: ELEGY
Elegy in English can mean only one thing: Thomas Gray's poem: Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard. It is so well known wherever English is learned. What has made it so?
There is such a quality and a deeply personal touch. The reader gets the feeling that the poet is opening out his heart, and conveying his inner thoughts-feelings. It is not from the brain. We identify ourselves with those thoughts.
We learn that Gray was deeply affected by the death of dear ones. The near-death of his close friend from childhood,Horace Walpole shook him. He thought about the subject for long. What took shape was not only about death, but about remembering the dead, about the human desire to be remembered after death. And he writes about the unknown, unsung people lying buried in the graveyard.
Indian religious poetry freely talks about death. It is in fact the thought of death that raises serious questions about the quality of life! Transience of life,youth,wealth-is the bedrock on which both serious and simple religious instruction is based in India. Indeed, birth, old age, disease and death-all four are dealt with seriously. Bhagavad Gita has some telling verses on it. On the contrary, this subject is not openly discussed in the West.
One of our great Upanishads starts from the death of a young student, Nachiketas.There Yama, the Lord of death himself becomes the teacher, and he teaches Immortality! One of our enduring legends is how a young devotee, Markandeya,son of a Muni, overcame death by devotion to Lord Shiva. He becomes a model for later devotees, like Arunagirinatha, who openly challenge Death: 'Dare to come near me, I will show you what! Have you forgotten what happened to you when you approached another devotee, Markandeya?' Then, there is the most endearing legend of Savitri, the devoted wife, confronting Death and bringing her dead husband back to life! Sri Aurobindo converted this legend into a Symbol too, immortalising it in the longest English poem, of 24,000 lines! In modern times, a school boy of 17,Venkatraman, became Ramana Maharshi after a 20-minute encounter with death!
During my school days, I had to pass a Masjid on the way. I used to find one blind 'baba' in rags sitting near the entrance and crying aloud, with extended hand:
Jo dega, woh marega;
Jo nahi dega, woh bhi marega.
meaning: those who give,they will die; those who don't give- they too will die.
It amused me a lot, but I did not know the meaning, nor did I care.
Over 30 years later, I met a colleague hailing from the North-west part of Karnataka, who recited this to me! He said it meant that though all have to die, those who lead a good life, practising charity and all that, will have an easy death, and pleasant after-life, while those who are not charitable will also die, but this death being like a cave of permanent darkness! Outward death is common, the state of life thereafter will be different!
Gray had been particularly affected by the death of his aunt, and of poet Richard West. Later, he stayed for a time at Stoke Poge, visiting the church and the graveyard, which made him think of death often. The poem was sent to his friend Walpole who liked and circulated it, making it popular even before its publication. But the poem does not mourn any one's death in particular but reflects on the human condition in general. I feel it is where its secret of appeal lies.
Striking Opening Lines: The country scene:
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.
For one like me, coming from the old rural area, when there was no electricity and all outdoor activities ceased before or at sunset, the opening lines dramatically bring out the ethereal quality of a village in the evening, in the fading light at sun-set. In the villages, it could be seen, and felt suddenly! It just grips and overwhelms you!
And the scene of the 'lowing herd' returning after the day's grazing in the open field is the stuff of our legend and lore- the time, with the dust raised, is considered very auspicious!
How many have actually seen a ploughman- with a plough on his shoulders? I have! And there is an unforgettable story about him!
Narada, the divine sage, gets conceited about his unparalleled devotion. One day he asks the Lord, apparently innocently, about who in the world could be considered the greatest devotee, expecting that the Lord would name him. The Lord sees through him and tells him that an old farmer in a certain village, is the greatest devotee.
Feeling slighted, Narada visits the village and watches the man through the day. In the morning, the fellow takes the plough , uttering the Lord's name once, keeps it on his shoulders and walks to his fields. He is busy with his work through the day. He returns at sun set, keeps the plough down, uttering the Lord's name once. He has his food and goes to sleep. Narada is enraged. This man, illiterate, uttering the Lord's name but twice in a day, and the greatest devotee? He comes to the Lord fuming, and questions him. The Lord does not answer him. Later, they go out for a stroll. They find an open field. The Lord poses a challenge, sporting: Narada has to take a vessel, filled with oil to the brim,and has to walk round the field thrice, without spilling even a drop of the oil. Could he do it? Easy, says Narada, and completes it. Then the Lord asks him: " Narada did you remember me during your rounds? How many times did you take my name?" Narada is shocked! In his preoccupation with the oil, he forgot the Lord! But the poor village farmer? He did not forget the Lord, in spite of all his work! He was the greatest!
This is the association the figure of the ploughman brings to my mind!
The scene now shifts from the village in general to the graveyard which induces thoughts on the dead.
Beneath those rugged elms,that yew-trees shade,
Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap,
Each in his narrow cell forever laid,
The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
No familiar village sound is going to "rouse them from their lowly bed".
What sort of people were they? Poor, unknown creatures,or mighty ones? Whoever they were, they have become one in the grave.
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.
What if no suitable memorials have been raised for them?
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 these were men who had ambition, but no fortune.
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.
They could not be great like a Hampden, a Milton or a Cromwell. But their humbler lot also saved them from doing harm!
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 the 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.
But such is human nature that even such humble people desire memorial, for who does not wish to be remembered ?
Yet even these bones from insult to protect,
Some frail memorial still erected high,
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked,
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
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;
Even from the tomb the voice of nature cries,
Even in our ashes live their wonted fires.
Toward the end , the poem describes the grave of a poet, remembered by someone. There is then an epitaph from which we gather that the poet was rather unknown.
Here rests his head upon the lap of earth,
A youth to fortune and 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.
So concludes the poem. This poet is perhaps one of those gems of 'ray serene' of which he wrote earlier. There is supposed to be an earlier version, but not being a researcher or academic, I have not bothered to look it up. I am happy with this gem.
This poem has always exercised a spell on me. I liked many passages and expressions immensely, and many of them just registered on my mind on first reading. We hailed from lower middle class, and thought we would be unknown to fortune and fame. The epitaph had a tragic pull , and I had wept over it! Perhaps our background determines what poems we get to like!
Why has Gray given us a poem of such sad reflections? But its very sadness makes it sweet.
A celluloid poet of ours Sahir Ludhianvi wrote these lines:
Denge wohi jo paayenge
Iss zindagi se hum.
We can give to the world but that which we will earn here.
P.B.Shelley wrote:
"Our sincerest laughter
With some pain is fraught;
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thoughts."
This I find has been rendered by one of our poets Shailendra in Hindi:
Hain Sabse madhur woh geet jinhe
Hum dard ke sur mein gaatein hain!
That song is our sweetest, which we sing out of our pain.
But here the poet goes on to an optimistic note:
Jab gham ke andhera giir aaya,
Samjho savera duur nahin.
When it gets darkest ( when your sadness is too intense), just remember morning is not far away!
During my school days, I had to pass a Masjid on the way. I used to find one blind 'baba' in rags sitting near the entrance and crying aloud, with extended hand:
Jo dega, woh marega;
Jo nahi dega, woh bhi marega.
meaning: those who give,they will die; those who don't give- they too will die.
It amused me a lot, but I did not know the meaning, nor did I care.
Over 30 years later, I met a colleague hailing from the North-west part of Karnataka, who recited this to me! He said it meant that though all have to die, those who lead a good life, practising charity and all that, will have an easy death, and pleasant after-life, while those who are not charitable will also die, but this death being like a cave of permanent darkness! Outward death is common, the state of life thereafter will be different!
Gray had been particularly affected by the death of his aunt, and of poet Richard West. Later, he stayed for a time at Stoke Poge, visiting the church and the graveyard, which made him think of death often. The poem was sent to his friend Walpole who liked and circulated it, making it popular even before its publication. But the poem does not mourn any one's death in particular but reflects on the human condition in general. I feel it is where its secret of appeal lies.
Striking Opening Lines: The country scene:
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.
For one like me, coming from the old rural area, when there was no electricity and all outdoor activities ceased before or at sunset, the opening lines dramatically bring out the ethereal quality of a village in the evening, in the fading light at sun-set. In the villages, it could be seen, and felt suddenly! It just grips and overwhelms you!
And the scene of the 'lowing herd' returning after the day's grazing in the open field is the stuff of our legend and lore- the time, with the dust raised, is considered very auspicious!
How many have actually seen a ploughman- with a plough on his shoulders? I have! And there is an unforgettable story about him!
Narada, the divine sage, gets conceited about his unparalleled devotion. One day he asks the Lord, apparently innocently, about who in the world could be considered the greatest devotee, expecting that the Lord would name him. The Lord sees through him and tells him that an old farmer in a certain village, is the greatest devotee.
Feeling slighted, Narada visits the village and watches the man through the day. In the morning, the fellow takes the plough , uttering the Lord's name once, keeps it on his shoulders and walks to his fields. He is busy with his work through the day. He returns at sun set, keeps the plough down, uttering the Lord's name once. He has his food and goes to sleep. Narada is enraged. This man, illiterate, uttering the Lord's name but twice in a day, and the greatest devotee? He comes to the Lord fuming, and questions him. The Lord does not answer him. Later, they go out for a stroll. They find an open field. The Lord poses a challenge, sporting: Narada has to take a vessel, filled with oil to the brim,and has to walk round the field thrice, without spilling even a drop of the oil. Could he do it? Easy, says Narada, and completes it. Then the Lord asks him: " Narada did you remember me during your rounds? How many times did you take my name?" Narada is shocked! In his preoccupation with the oil, he forgot the Lord! But the poor village farmer? He did not forget the Lord, in spite of all his work! He was the greatest!
This is the association the figure of the ploughman brings to my mind!
The scene now shifts from the village in general to the graveyard which induces thoughts on the dead.
Beneath those rugged elms,that yew-trees shade,
Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap,
Each in his narrow cell forever laid,
The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
No familiar village sound is going to "rouse them from their lowly bed".
What sort of people were they? Poor, unknown creatures,or mighty ones? Whoever they were, they have become one in the grave.
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.
What if no suitable memorials have been raised for them?
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 these were men who had ambition, but no fortune.
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.
They could not be great like a Hampden, a Milton or a Cromwell. But their humbler lot also saved them from doing harm!
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 the 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.
But such is human nature that even such humble people desire memorial, for who does not wish to be remembered ?
Yet even these bones from insult to protect,
Some frail memorial still erected high,
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked,
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
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;
Even from the tomb the voice of nature cries,
Even in our ashes live their wonted fires.
Toward the end , the poem describes the grave of a poet, remembered by someone. There is then an epitaph from which we gather that the poet was rather unknown.
Here rests his head upon the lap of earth,
A youth to fortune and 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.
So concludes the poem. This poet is perhaps one of those gems of 'ray serene' of which he wrote earlier. There is supposed to be an earlier version, but not being a researcher or academic, I have not bothered to look it up. I am happy with this gem.
This poem has always exercised a spell on me. I liked many passages and expressions immensely, and many of them just registered on my mind on first reading. We hailed from lower middle class, and thought we would be unknown to fortune and fame. The epitaph had a tragic pull , and I had wept over it! Perhaps our background determines what poems we get to like!
Why has Gray given us a poem of such sad reflections? But its very sadness makes it sweet.
A celluloid poet of ours Sahir Ludhianvi wrote these lines:
Denge wohi jo paayenge
Iss zindagi se hum.
We can give to the world but that which we will earn here.
P.B.Shelley wrote:
"Our sincerest laughter
With some pain is fraught;
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thoughts."
This I find has been rendered by one of our poets Shailendra in Hindi:
Hain Sabse madhur woh geet jinhe
Hum dard ke sur mein gaatein hain!
That song is our sweetest, which we sing out of our pain.
But here the poet goes on to an optimistic note:
Jab gham ke andhera giir aaya,
Samjho savera duur nahin.
When it gets darkest ( when your sadness is too intense), just remember morning is not far away!
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