Some with vile copper-prize exalt on high, 'T will whisper in her ear, and all the scene unfold. Lo! now with state she utters her command; Eftsoons the urchins to their tasks repair; Their books of stature small they take in hand, Which with pellucid horn secured are, To save from finger-wet the letters fair. The work so gay, that on their back is seen, St. George's high achievements does declare ; On which each wight that has y-gazing been, Kens the forth-coming rod — unpleasing sight, I ween. Ah! luckless he, and born beneath the beam Of evil star! it irks me whilst I write ; O ruthful scene! when from a nook obscure, * Spenser. No longer can she now her shrieks command; And soon a flood of tears begins to flow, But ah! what pen his piteous plight may trace? The plenteous shower that does his cheek distain? Or when from high she levels well her aim, And, through the thatch, his cries each falling stroke proclaim! But now Dan Phoebus gains the middle sky, And liberty unbars her prison door ; And, like a rushing torrent, out they fly; Gray was educated at Cambridge, by the aid of his mother's exertions as a milliner, and on leaving college, he accompanied Horace Walpole, son of the premier, on a tour through France and Italy. After this, he returned to the university, and took his degree in civil law, but did not follow the profession. He fixed his residence at Cambridge, and there passed the greater part of his remaining life, in the enjoyment of its libraries and its cultivated society. His Letters, descriptive of occa sional excursions into the country, are remarkable for their elegance, precision, and humor. The Elegy Written in a Country Church-yard has been the most popular of his poems. Gray was offered the situation of poet-laureate, but did not accept the appointment. ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD. THE curfew tolls the knell of parting day; The lowing herds wind slowly o'er the lea, Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, Save where the beetle wheels his drony flight, Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower, Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield; Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, Can storied urn, or animated bust, Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? 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, 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 applause of listening senates to command, Their lot forbade; nor circumscribed alone The struggling pangs of conscious Truth to hide, With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. Yet even these bones from insult to protect, Their names, 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; - 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. |