Well tried through many a varying year,
See Levet to the grave descend,
Officious, innocent, sincere,

Of every friendless name the friend.

Yet still he fills affection's eye,
Obscurely wise and coarsely kind;
Nor, letter'd arrogance, deny
Thy praise to merit unrefin'd.

When fainting nature call'd for aid,
And hovering death prepar'd the blow,
His vigorous remedy display'd

The power of art without the show.

In misery's darkest cavern known
His useful care was ever nigh,
Where hopeless anguish pour'd his groan,
And lonely want retir'd to die.

No summons mock'd by chill delay,
No petty gain disdain'd by pride;

The modest wants of every day

The toil of every day supply'd.

His virtues walk'd their narrow round,
Nor made a pause, nor left a void;
And sure the Eternal Master found
The single talent well employ'd.

The busy day-the peaceful night,
Unfelt, uncounted, glided by;

His frame was firm-his powers were bright,
Though now his eightieth year was nigh.

Then with no fiery, throbbing pain,
No cold gradations of decay,
Death broke at once the vital chain,
And forc'd his soul the nearest way.

VANITY OF HUMAN WISHES.

WHERE then shall hope and fear their objects find,
Must dull suspense corrupt the stagnant mind?
Must helpless man, in ignorance sedate,
Roll darkling down the torrent of his fate?
Must no dislike alarm, no wishes rise,

No cries invoke the mercies of the skies ?

Inquirer, cease, petitions yet remain,

Which Heaven may hear, nor deem religion vain.
Still raise, for good, the supplicating voice,

But leave to Heaven the measure and the choice;
Safe in his power, whose eyes discern afar
The secret ambush of a specious prayer.
Implore his aid, in his decisions rest

Secure, whate'er he gives, he gives the best :
Yet, when the sense of sacred presence fires,
And strong devotion to the skies aspires,
Pour forth thy fervours for a healthful mind,
Obedient passions, and a will resign'd;
For love, which scarce collective man can fill,
For patience sov'reign o'er transmuted ill;
For faith that, panting for a happier seat,
Counts death kind nature's signal for retreat;
These goods for man the laws of Heaven ordain,
These goods he grants, who grants the power to

gain;

With these celestial Wisdom calms the mind,
And makes the happiness she does not find.

THOMAS GRAY.

BORN 1716-DIED 1771.

GRAY is of the number of those poets alluded to in the preliminary observations, who, without being entitled to the name of Sacred Poets, obtain an influence over the affections of the most ennobling tendency, softening and purifying the heart, and elevating the mind above degrading pursuits and sensual indulgences. If this is applicable to a whole class of English compositions, how strongly does it hold of the Elegy in a Country Church-yard,"-" one of the most classical productions that ever was penned by a thoughtful mind, moralizing on human life."

Thomas Gray was born in London, where his father was a money-scrivener. He was educated at Eton and Cambridge, and afterwards travelled for a time with the celebrated Horace Walpole, Earl of Orford. The death of his father put him in possession of a small fortune; and he entered Cambridge, where he passed the remainder of his days; the composition of poetry being the principal enjoyment of his listless and secluded college life. In 1768 he was appointed Professor of Modern History at Cambridge, an office which he did not long enjoy. Gray's Letters show as much talent, and perhaps more power of mind, than his poetry. They are among the most pleasing epistolary compositions in the language.

ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY

CHURCH-YARD.

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.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds ;

Save where the beetle wheels his drony flight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;

Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower,

The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, Molest her ancient solitary reign.

Beneath these 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 hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, Theswallow twittering from her straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her evening care;
No children run to lisp their sire's return,
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield;

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke : How jocund did they drive their team a-field! 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 power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Await alike the inevitable hour:

The paths of glory lead-but to the grave.

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,

If memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, Where, through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault,

The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

Can storied urn, or animated bust,

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can honour's voice provoke the silent dust,

Or flattery sooth the dull cold ear of Death?

Perhaps, in this neglected spot, is laid

Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or waked to ecstacy the living lyre:

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page,
Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unrol;
Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the soul.

Full many a gem of purest ray serene,

The dark unfathom'd 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 little tyrant of his fields withstood;

Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest; Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood'