PUKEKOHE EAST CHURCHYARD AND GRAY’S ELEGY.

Franklin Times, Volume 9, Issue 698, 10 January 1922, Page 4

PUKEKOHE EAST CHURCHYARD AND GRAY’S ELEGY.

(By Jack Grainger). Written Especially for i;he Times

I can seldom visit! a churchyard cemetery without the immortal lines of Gray’s gi-eat poem hammering through my brain. Every, reader of the Times must have read the “Elegy written in a country churchyard,!’ but if anyone has not, he or she should do so, and then -visit that historic old milestone in the history of the colony—Pukekohe East Church and burial ground. On a recent Sunday I walked out to this sacred spot, and was so moved at: what I saw that I felt compelled to pen this article. ' The historic old church which played a noble part during the Waikato War still stands with its scars, but is fast falling into decay. An effort should be made to strengthen its weakening timbers and preserve its old associations. A building with a history of this kind is a national asset and the burden of preservation should not be placed entirely on the denomination using it. One can still see where the bullets of the Maoris struck the building while inside the white population of Pukekohe East prayed and fought till help came. Turning away from the building towards the burial ground one receives a rude shock. With Gray’s lines —

“ 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 namlet sleep.” With these lines, I say runningthrough the mind, one finds a dreary blotch of wild bracken, broken grave rails and tumbled headstones. Only in one or two instances does the hand of attention and affection show out. The big majority of the pioneers of Pukekohe East slqep under scenes of desolation and careless indifference. One must remember that when Gray wrote his Elegy he visited a church-Arard where the dead had lain for centuries, and; where some excuse for neglect and decay could have been found, but here at Pukekohe East is an historic, burial ground not much more, than half a century old, yet it is uninspiring, depressing, and fills one with astonishment that the forefathers of the hamlet have been so utterly forgotten in a space of fifty years. There are no yews or elm trees ; no weeping willows or stately oaks or even firs. Barren, sunscorched, desolate, ruinous and forgotten seems the most befitting description. And yet a few trees, a few paths, and a few shrubs and flowers could .so easily transform this little spot—but nobody cares. Standing there that hot Sunday afternoon I could not but feel saddened, and dejected—not on account of the glorious dead who sleep there, but because they deserved to sleep in better surroundings and had them not. I walked over to a fallen headstone and turned it right way up to read the inscription. The name of the deceased stood out clear and legibly. The inscription stated that “he had been a pioneer journalist, temperance worker and preacher of the Gospel.” Alongside was the headstone of his wife. These two pioneers amongst many more lying there, had battled with the bush and the Maoris, had bravely met the trials of early settlement, known the joys and sorrows of pioneer life an'd passed to the Great Beyond in the fulness of their time. Instead of bracken and broken railings they deserve the best care that a prosperous, community can bestow. It is not too late even now. Will it be done ? But could Gray have written bis immortal elegy in the Pukekohe East churchyard ? I think not. He would have penned instead an elegy to the callousness and indifference and utter forgetfulness of the descendants and friends of those hardy old pioneers, who lie there covered with bracken and broken railings, and awry headstones. He would have wordpainted the picture of the hopes and struggles, the triumphs and defeats, of these pioneers when they first arrived at Pukekohe East, and began to turn the bush-clad hills into farms. The land was indeed cheap from the money point of view, but what infinite pains, what years of labour, what months of hardship were required to bring the land into cultivation. Even when that was accomplished the prices received for farm produce were pitifully low in proportion to the labour expended, but these stout hearts cared not so long as they were able to feed and educate their children and keep free of debt. One by one these sturdy nation-builders are retiring to re.it,

not. only in Pukekohe East churchyard but in church-yards and burial grounds throughout this prosperous Dominion of ours. Are we going to neglect and forget their resting places ? Can we not recognise that •the communities to-day owe a vast debt of thankfulness to these old settlers, who in fulfilling the destinies of the British nation, laid the foundations of settlement and security'for us who were fortunate enough to come after. I have delivered my message. Will it be heeded? As I stood bareheaded among the ruinous graves at Pukekohe East I pledged myself to deliver it. The evening wind was sighing sadly amidst the bracken and broken railings, the old Church creaked and groaned with its weight of years, as I turned silently towards home. Again, the faceted gems of Gray’s immortal lines surged through my brain—

“Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; Hands, that the rc& of empire might have swayed, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.”