Religion blushing veils her sacred fires, Nor public flame, nor private, dares to shine; ODE ON SOLITUDE HAPPY the man whose wish and care A few paternal acres bound, Content to breathe his native air In his own ground. 25 Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread, 5 Whose flocks supply him with attire; Whose trees in summer yield him shade, Blest, who can unconcern'dly find Hours, days, and years, slide soft away Sound sleep by night; study and ease Together mix'd; sweet recreation, 10 And innocence, which most does please 15 Thus let me live, unseen, unknown; Thus unlamented let me die; Steal from the world, and not a stone Tell where I lie. 20 THOMAS GRAY 1716-1771 GRAY, like many other men great in English letters, was born in London; but, like Spenser and Milton, both of whom were natives of London, he spent many years of his life away from the busy haunts of men; nor did he ever enter into the full activities of life, as did Milton in his prime. He even declined the position of Poet Laureate. Gray's father was a stockbroker in London, who seems to have treated his family shabbily. Gray was sent, through the help of an uncle, to Eton, the old and famous school near Windsor Castle. Afterwards he studied at Cambridge University, where he spent nearly all the rest of his days in scholarly leisure" along the sequestered vale of life." Chaucer and Spenser and Shakespeare and Milton were men of affairs as well as of letters. They knew men and cities as well as books. But Gray was the scholar and poet, pure and simple. He studied much, but he wrote little. After Milton, he was the most learned of the English poets; but, unlike Milton, his productive power was so slight that one volume is sufficient to contain all his poems. But the poetry which he has left us-consisting largely of odes and Latin poems and translations from the Norse—is so refined and lofty in feeling, and so perfect in workmanship, that it has given Gray a reputation which is wide and extremely high. Gray's last years were clouded by ill health and low spirits. His mother, to whom he was tenderly devoted, had died. He never married, but lived a life more and more secluded as the years went by. When he died he was buried in the same tomb with his mother in Stoke Poges Churchyard, within sight of the antique towers of Eton and Windsor. 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 tow'r, The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such as, wand'ring near her secret bow'r, Molest her ancient solitary reign. 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 twitt'ring from the straw-built shed, For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, 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. 25 30 The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Await alike th' inevitable hour. 35 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? 40 Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 45 Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed, Or wak'd to extasy the living lyre. But Knowledge to their eyes, her ample page Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll; 55 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, Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood. Th' applause of list'ning senates to command, And read their hist'ry in a nation's eyes, 55 60 Their lot forbad: nor circumscrib'd alone 65 Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd; Forbad to wade through slaughter to a throne, And shut the gates of mercy on mankind, The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, 70 |