Good Heaven! what sorrows gloomed that parting day That called them from their native walks away, When the poor exiles, every pleasure past, Hung round the bowers, and fondly looked their last, With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes, O Luxury, thou curst by Heaven's decree! At every draught, more large and large they grow, Till, sapped their strength, and every part unsound, And half the business of destruction done; E'en now, methinks, as pondering here I stand, Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail, Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand. And kind connubial tenderness, are there, And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid! Thou guide, by which the noble arts excel; THOMAS GRAY. 1716-1771. ""The Prog Distinguished as poet and scholar. "Ode to Spring," "The Bard," ress of Poesy," and Elegy written in a Country Churchyard." His letters are noted for their clear, elegant, and picturesque style. 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, * 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, Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a moldering 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, 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 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? 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, 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 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 The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked, 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, 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. "There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech, "Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Muttering his wayward fancies, he would rove; Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love. "One morn I missed him on the customed hill, Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood, was he: "The next, with dirges due in sad array, Slow through the churchway-path we saw him borne: THE EPITAPH. Here rests his head upon the lap of earth Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere; He gave to misery (all he had) a tear; He gained from Heaven ('twas all he wished) a friend. No farther seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, (There they alike in trembling hope repose,) The bosom of his Father and his God. OTHER DISTINGUISHED WRITERS OF WILLIAM SHENSTONE.-1714-1763. "Schoolmistress" and "Pastoral Ballad.” WILLIAM COLLINS. - 1721-1759. "Oriental Eclogues," "The Passions," odes to Liberty" and "Evening," and other fine lyrics. MARK AKENSIDE.-1721-1770. "Pleasures of Imagination." THOMAS WARTON. 1728-1790. poems; "History of English Poetry." "The Pleasures of Melancholy," and other Brother of Thomas, and an inferior poet. JOHN HORNE. - |