GRAY.

Lance to lance, and horse to horse?

[GEORGE III

Long years of havoc urge their destined course,
And through the kindred squadrons mow their way.
Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame,1
With many a foul and midnight murder fed,
Revere his consort's faith, his father's fame,
And spare the meek usurper's holy head.4
Above, below, the rose of snow,5

Twined with her blushing foe, we spread:
The bristled Boar in infant gore

Wallows beneath the thorny shade.

Now, brothers, bending o'er th' accursed loom,
Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom.'

III. 1.

Edward, lo! to sudden fate

(Weave we the woof. The thread is spun.)

Half of thy heart we consecrate.7

(The web is wove. The work is done.)

Stay, oh stay! nor thus forlorn

Leave me unbless'd, unpitied, here to mourn:

In yon bright track, that fires the western skies,
They melt, they vanish from my eyes.

But oh! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height,
Descending slow, their glittering skirts unroll?
Visions of glory, spare my aching sight,

Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!
No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail,8
All hail, ye genuine Kings! Britannia's issue, hail!"

III. 2.

"Girt with many a baron bold,

Sublime their starry fronts they rear;

And gorgeous dames, and statesmen old

In bearded majesty, appear.

1 Henry the Sixth, George Duke of Clarence, Edward the Fifth, Richard Duke of York, &c., be Heved to be murdered secretly in the Tower of London. The oldest part of that structure is vulgarly attributed to Julius Cæsar.

3 Margaret of Anjou, a woman of heroic spirit, who struggled hard to save her husband and her

crown.

8 Henry the Fifth.

4 Henry the Sixth, very near being canonized. The line of Lancaster had no right of inheritance

to the crown.

6 The white and red roses, devices of York and Lancaster.

The silver boar was the badge of Richard the Third; whence he was usually known in his ow

time by the name of the boar.

7 Eleanor of Castile died a few years after the conquest of Wales. The heroic proof she gave of her affection for her lord is well known. The monuments of his regret and sorrow for the loss of

ner, are still to be seen at Northampton, Gaddington, Waltham, and other places.

8 It was the common belief of the Welsh nation, that King Arthur was still alive in Fairyland, and

would return again to reign over Britain.

Both Merlin and Taliessin had prophesied, that the Welsh should regain their sovereignty over this island; which seemed to be accomplished in the house of Tudor.

1760-1820.]

GRAY.

In the midst a form divine!

Her eye proclaims her of the Briton-line;
Her lion-port, her awe-commanding face,'
Attemper'd sweet to virgin grace.

What strings symphonious tremble in the air!
What strains of vocal transport round her play!
Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear!2
They breathe a soul to animate thy clay.
Bright Rapture calls, and soaring, as she sings,
Waves in the eye of heaven her many-color'd wings.

III. 3.

"The verse adorn again
Fierce war, and faithful love,
And truth severe, by fairy fiction drest.

In buskin'd measures move

Pale grief, and pleasing pain,

With horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast.3
A voice, as of the cherub choir,

Gales from blooming Eden bear;4

And distant warblings lessen on my ear,5

That lost in long futurity expire.

Fond impious man, think'st thou yon sanguine cloud,
Raised by thy breath, has quench'd the orb of day?
To-morrow he repairs the golden flood,

And warms the nations with redoubled ray.

Enough for me: with joy I see

The different doom our fates assign.

Be thine despair, and sceptred care;

To triumph, and to die, are mine."

He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's height
Deep in the roaring tide he plunged to endless night.

1 Speed, relating an audience given by Queen Elizabeth to Paul Dzialinski, ambassador of Poland, says, "And thus she, lion-like rising, daunted the malapert orator no less with her stately port and majestical deporture, that with the tartnesse of her princelle checkes."

2 Tallessin, chief of the Bards, flourished in the sixth century. His works are still preserved, and his memory is held in high veneration among his countrymen.

8 Shakspeare.

6 The succession of poets after Milton's time.

4 Milton.

6 The original argument of this capital Ode, as its author had set it down in one of the pages of his common-place book, is as follows: "The army of Edward I., as they march through a deep valley, are suddenly stopped by the appearance of a venerable figure seated on the summit of an inaccessi ble rock, who, with a voice more than human, reproaches the king with all the misery and desolation which he had brought on his country; foretells the misfortunes of the Norman race, and with prophetic spirit declares, that all his cruelty shall never extinguish the noble ardor of poetic genius in this island; and that men shall never be wanting to celebrate true virtue and valor in immortal strains, to expose vice and infamous pleasure, and boldly censure tyranny and oppress.on. His song ended, he precipitates himself from the mountain, and is swallowed up by the river that rolls at its foot."

GRAY.

[GEORGE IIL

ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD.1

The Curfew tolls 2 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 droning 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 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.3

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,
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 afield!

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.

1 The reasons of that universal approbation with which this Elegy has been received, may be learned from the comprehensive encomium of Dr. Johnson: "It abounds with Images which find a mirror in every soul; and with sentiments, to which every bosom returns an echo."

“Had Gray written nothing but his Elegy, high as he stands, I am not sure that he would not stand

higher; it is the corner-stone of his glory."-Lord Byron.

"Of smaller poems, the Elegy of Gray may be considered as the most exquisite and finished ex ample in the world, of the effect resulting from the intermixture of evening scenery and pathetic reflection."-Drake's Literary Hours, ii. 66.

2 Dr. Warton would spoil the tranquil simplicity of this line, by introducing a pause with a note of admiration after the word "tolls." But such affectation of solemnity and suddenness in his musing

18 nowhere to be found in our author.

8 "I know not what there is of spell in the following simple line,

'The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep,'

but no frequency of repetition can exhaust its touching charm. This fine poem overcame even the spiteful enmity of Johnson, and forced him to acknowledge its excellence."-Sir Egerton Brydges

1760-1820.]

GRAY.

The boast of Heraldry, the pomp of Power,
And all that Beauty, all that Wealth e'er gave,
Await alike th' 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 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 sway'd,
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre:

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page
Rich with the spoils of Time did ne'er unroll;
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.
Th' applause of listening senates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to despise,

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;
Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,

And shut the gates of mercy on mankind,3

1 A writer in the ninth volume of the Quarterly Review cites the following passage from Bishop Hall's Contemplations, as a singular instance of accidental resemblance: "There is many a rich stone laid up in the bowels of the earth, many a fair pearl in the bosom of the sea, that never was *een, nor never shall be." So Milton in his Comus speaks of the

"Sea-girt isles,

That, like to rich and various gems, inlay

The unadorned bosom of the deep."

2 "What son of Freedom is not in raptures with this tribute of praise to such an exalted charac ter, in immortal verse? This honorable testimony and the noble detestation of arbitrary power, with which it is accompanied, might possibly be one cause of Dr. Johnson's animosity against our poet. Upon this topic the critic's feelings, we know, were irritability itself and 'tremblingly alive all o'er.'"-Wakefield.

8 These two verses are specimens of sublimity of the purest kind, like the simple grandeur of He brew poetry; depending solely on the thought, unassisted by epithets and the artificial decorations of expression.

GRAY.

The struggling pangs of conscious Truth to hide,
To quench the blushes of ingenuous Shame,
Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride

With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,
Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray;
Along the cool sequester'd vale of life

They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

[GEORGE III.

Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect,
Some frail memorial still erected nigh,
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture1 deck'd
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd 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 resign'd,
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
Nor cast one longing lingering look behind?
On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
Some pious drops the closing eye requires;
E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,
E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.2
For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonor'd dead,
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;
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,

That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,
His listless length at noontide would he stretch,
And pore upon the brook that babbles by.
"Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,
Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove;

Now drooping, woful wan, like one forlorn,

Or crazed with Care, or cross'd in hopeless Love.

I-Gray's Elegy, is there an image more striking than his 'shapeless sculpture f "—Lord Byron

A the first edition it stood,

'Awake and faithful to her wonted fires,'

⚫d I think rather better. He means to say, in plain prose, that we wish to be remembered by our ends after our death, in the same manner as when alive we wished to be remembered by them in absence: this would be expressed clearer, if the metaphorical term 'fires' was rejected, and the

live run thus:

'Awake and faithful to her first desires.'

I do not pat this alteration down for the idle vanity of aiming to amend the passage, but purely to

explain it."-Mason.