It also appeared in _The Magazine of Magazines_ (London) for February, 1751, where it was introduced as having been composed “by the very ingenious Mr. _Gray_, of _Peterhouse_, Cambridge.” In this it was entitled, _Stanzas written in a Country Churchyard_, although it was entered in the Index as _An Elegy made in a Country Churchyard_. This was more modern in its orthography, and contained several variations from the authorised edition published by Dodsley. There can be little doubt but that this pirated version of the “Elegy” was at first generally preferred to Gray’s authorised edition, in which there were some very obvious errors, due to its hasty production. Certain it is that all subsequent editions far more nearly resembled the pirated version, than that printed by Dodsley at Gray’s request. Dodsley’s first edition was in quarto, and is now excessively rare. The following is an exact reprint of it, the original orthography and style of printing being in strict accordance with the copy now in the library of the British Museum. The only variation being that the stanzas are numbered for convenience of reference to the foot notes. ―――― AN ELEGY WROTE IN A COUNTRY CHURCH YARD. London: Printed for R. DODSLEY, in _Pall-mall_; and sold by M. COOPER in _Pater-noster-Row_. 1751. [PRICE SIX-PENCE.] _ADVERTISEMENT._ The following POEM came into my Hands by accident, if the general Approbation with which this little Piece has been spread, may be call’d by so slight a Term as accident. It is this approbation which makes it unnecessary for me to make any Apology but to the Author: As he cannot but feel some Satisfaction in having pleas’d so many Readers already, I flatter myself he will forgive my communicating that Pleasure to many more. THE EDITOR. The Curfeu tolls the Knell of parting Day, 1 The lowing Herd winds slowly o’er the Lea, The Plow-man homeward plods his weary Way, And leaves the World to Darkness, and to me. Now fades the glimmering Landscape on the Sight, 2 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, 3 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, 4 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.