This night his treasured heaps he meant to steal, On sounding pinions here the youth withdrew, THOMAS GRAY His Was born in London on the 26th of December, 1716. father was a money scrivener, and separating from his wife after the birth of their son, the burthen of his maintenance and education fell upon herself, assisted in her exertions by the kindness of a sister. Thus she was enabled to procure for him an entrance, first at Eton, and afterwards at Cambridge. At the former place he became intimate with Horace Walpole, and after the termination of his college education, he was induced to accompany the latter on a tour through France and Italy. His first appearance as a poet was in 1747, in an Ode to Eton College. Two years afterward he wrote his "Elegy in a Country Churchyard," which immediately became popular. Or the death of Colley Cibber he was offered the situation poet-laureat, but declined; and afterward the appointment of Professor of Modern History, with a salary of £400 per annum, in which situation he died from the effects of an attack of gout in the stomach, on the 30th of July, 177!. As a scholar he was profound, elegant, and well-informed; and possessed, also, a most refined taste in painting, architecture and gardening. His poems are few, but full of nervous and sublime eloquence; but the ene which has immortalized him as a poet, is the perfect gem which we copy. AN ELEGY, WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. THE curfew tolls the knell of parting day, 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, 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, The swallow, twittering from the 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, Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield; Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke ; How jocund did they drive their teams afield! How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! Let not ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; 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, The pealing anthem swells the note of praise Can storied urn, or animated bust, Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can honor's voice provoke the silent dust, Or flattery soothe 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 swayed, Or waked to ecstacy 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 little tyrant of his fields withstood; Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest; Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood. The applause of listening senates to command, And read their history in a nation's eyes, Their lot forbade: nor circumscribed alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined; Forbabe to wade through slaughter to a throne, The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, With incense kindled at the muse's flame. Far from the maddening crowd's ignoble strife Their sober wishes never learned to stray; Along the cool sequestered vale of life They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. Yet even these bones from insult to protect, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. Their name, their years, spelt by the unlettered muse, |