with comparatively little success. His fame, however, was now so widely spread that he was offered the situation of poet-laureate, vacant by the death of Colley Cibber. Gray declined the appointment for the more lucrative situation of Professor of Modern History in the university, at a salary of four hundred pounds per annum. For some years he had been subject to hereditary gout, and as his circumstances improved, his health declined. While at dinner one day in the college hall, he was seized with an attack in the stomach, which was so violent, as to resist all the efforts of medicine, and after six days of suffering, he expired, on the thirtieth of July, 1771, in the fifty-fifth year of his age. He was buried, according to his own request, by the side of his mother, at Stoke, near Eton-adding one more poetical association to that beautiful and classic district of England. Gray's poetry is all comprised in a few pages, and yet, as a poet, he holds a very high rank. His two great odes, The Progress of Poesy, and The Bard, are the most splendid compositions, in the Pindaric style and measure, in the English language. Each presents rich personifications, striking thoughts, and happy imagery Sublime their starry fronts they rear. 'The Bard' is more dramatic and picturesque than 'The Progress of Poesy,' yet in the latter are some of the poet's richest and most majestic strains. Of these, the following sketch of the savage youth of Chili may be taken as an example: In climes beyond the solar road, Where shaggy forms o'er ice-built mountains roam, The muse has broke the twilight gloom, To cheer the shivering native's dull abode. And oft beneath the odorous shade Of Chili's boundless forests laid, She deigns to hear the savage youth repeat, In loose numbers wildly sweet, Their feather-cinctured chiefs and dusky loves. Her track, where'er the goddess roves, Glory pursue and generous shame, The unconquerable mind and Freedom's holy flame. To these lines we may add the following graphic delineation of the poetical characters of Shakspeare, Milton, and Dryden: Far from the sun and summer gale, In thy green lap was Nature's darling laid, Her awful face: the dauntless child Stretched forth his little arms, and smiled. 'This pencil take,' she said, 'whose colours clear Richly paint the vernal year: Thine, too, these golden keys, immortal boy! This can unlock the gates of Joy; Of Horror that, and thrilling Fears, Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic Tears. Nor second he, that rode sublime He passed the flaming bounds of space and time: Where angels tremble while they gaze, He saw; but blasted with exccess of light, Closed his eyes in endless night. Behold where Dryden's less presumptuous car Wide o'er the fields of glory bear Two coursers of ethereal race, With necks in thunder clothed, and long-resounding pace. The 'Ode to Eton College,' the 'Ode to Adversity,' and the far-famed "Elegy,' present the same careful and elaborate finish which characterize his more elevated strains; but the thoughts and imagery are far more simple, natural, and touching. A train of moral feelings, and solemn and af fecting associations, is presented to the mind, in connection with beautiful natural scenery, and objects of real life. The 'Ode to Adversity,' and the Elegy' follow: VOL. II.-Y ODE TO ADVERSITY. Daughter of Jove, relentless power, Bound in thy adamantine chain, With pangs unfelt before, unpitied, and alone. When first thy sire to send on earth With patience many a year she bore: What sorrow was, thou bad'st her know, And from her own she learned to melt at others' woe. Scared at thy frown terrific, fly Self-pleasing Folly's idle brood, Wild Laughter, Noise, and thoughtless Joy, And leave us leisure to be good. Light they disperse, and with them go The summer friend, the flattering foe ; By vain Prosperity received; To her they vow their truth, and are again believed. Wisdom, in sable garb arrayed, Immersed in rapturous thought profound, And melancholy, silent maid, With leaden eye, that loves the ground, Still on thy solemn steps attend: Warm Charity, the general friend, With Justice, to herself severe, And Pity, dropping soft the sadly-pleasing tear. Oh, gently on thy suppliant's head, Dread goddess, lay thy chastening hand! Nor circled with the vengeful band (As by the impious thou art seen), With thundering voice, and threatening mien, Thy form benign, oh goddess! wear, To soften, not to wound, my heart. What others are, to feel, and know myself a man. ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, 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, 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 team a-field! 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, 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 soothe the dull cold ear of Death? Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; But knowledge to their eyes her ample page Chill Penury repressed their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul. Full many a gem, of purest ray serene, The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear: Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast The applause of listening senates to command, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, And read their history in a nation's eyes, Their lot forbade nor circumscribed alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined; The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife They keep the noiseless tenor of their way. Yet even these bones from insult to protect, Some frail memorial still erected nigh, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. Their name, their years, spelt by the unlettered muse, And many a holy text around she strews, For who, to dumb Forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing anxious being e'er resigned, For thee, who, mindful of the unhonoured dead, If chance, by lonely Contemplation led, Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate; Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, 'Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. There at the foot of yonder nodding beech, Hard by yon wood, now smilling as in scorn, Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love. One morn I missed him on the 'customed hill, Another came; nor yet beside the rill, Nor up the lawn, not at the wood was he. The next, with dirges due in sad array, Slow through the churchway path we saw him borne; Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay THE EPITAPH. Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth, |