Typically, Bloom gets a couple of things wrong when he thinks
in Hades, "Eulogy in a country churchyard it ought
to be that poem of whose is it Wordsworth or Thomas Campbell."
The poem was written by Thomas Gray, and its title, Elegy
Written in a Country Churchyard, perfectly suits Gray's
intent: a eulogy is a praise of someone who has died, while an
elegy is a more general meditative lament for the dead. Still,
Bloom knows that his title is wrong ("it ought to be"), he
knows this deservedly famous poem (not every high
school-educated person does), and he shows some literary
discernment in guessing that it may have been written by
Wordsworth or Campbell. Some of Gray's thoughts chime with
things he thinks in his own, more urban graveyard.
The English poet William Wordsworth (1770-1850) and the
Scotsman Thomas Campbell (1777-1844) were born two or three
generations after Gray (1716-1771). But anyone could be
forgiven for supposing that Wordsworth wrote the "Elegy."
Although it predated the Lyrical Ballads (1799) by
nearly half a century, Gray's 1751 poem strongly anticipated
the Romantic poet's reverential wanderings in nature and his
democratizing interest in ordinary men and women. As for
Campbell, earlier in Hades Bloom has thought of a
line from Lord Ullin's Daughter
(1804), a ballad that poignantly grieves a death.
As darkness falls on a bucolic landscape, the speaker of
Gray's elegy thinks about the people buried beneath the trees
in a local churchyard. The fact that no great titles or
accomplishments are recorded on their tombstones should not,
he thinks, diminish appreciation of their lives:
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.
It is quite possible, Gray supposes, that "Some mute
inglorious Milton here may rest, / Some Cromwell guiltless of
his country's blood." These people grew up in rural poverty,
deprived of education and paths to social advancement, and
their talents never found the way to praise. "Far from the
madding crowd's ignoble strife," they "kept the noiseless
tenor of their way." But like all human beings they valued
their lives, felt connected to others, and hoped to be
remembered well. The poem memorializing them has been written
by a man who shares their obscure condition, "A youth to
Fortune and to Fame unknown."
Bloom too is a negligible man, and his reflections just before he thinks of Gray's poem show a similar concern with the hidden lives of ordinary people. As Joe Hynes and Jack Power wander off to revere the great Parnell, he looks around at all the lesser graves surmounted by icons of religious hope and thinks how faintly they represent the lives that have ended: "Pray for the repose of the soul of. Does anybody really? Plant him and have done with him. Like down a coalshoot." These people wished to live on, and their lives had meaning enough on their own terms: "Who passed away. Who departed this life. As if they did it of their own accord. Got the shove, all of them. Who kicked the bucket. More interesting if they told you what they were. So and So, wheelwright. I travelled for cork lino. I paid five shillings in the pound. Or a woman's with her saucepan. I cooked good Irish stew."