Auspicious gratulates the bark which, now His banks forsaking, her adventurous wings Yields to the breeze, with Albion's happy gifts Extremest isles to bless. And oft at morn, When Hermes, from Olympus bent o'er Earth To bear the words of Jove, on yonder hill Stoops lightly-sailing; oft intent your springs He views and waving o'er some new-born stream His blest pacific wand, "And yet," he cries, "Yet," cries the son of Maia, "though recluse And silent be your stores, from you, fair Nymphs, Flows wealth and kind society to men. By you, my function and my honour'd name Do I possess; while o'er the Boetic vale, Or through the towers of Memphis, or the palms By sacred Ganges water'd, I conduct The English merchant: with the buxom fleece Of fertile Ariconium while I clothe Sarmatian kings; or to the household gods Of Syria, from the bleak Cornubian shore, Dispense the mineral treasure which of old Sidonian pilots sought, when this fair land Was yet unconscious of those generous arts Which wise Phoenicia from their native clime Transplanted to a more indulgent Heaven." Such are the words of Hermes: such the praise, O Naiads, which from tongues celestial waits Your bounteous deeds. From bounty issueth power: And those who, sedulous in prudent works, Relieve the wants of nature, Jove repays With noble wealth, and his own seat on Earth, Fit judgments to pronounce, and curb the might Of wicked men. Your kind unfailing urns Not vainly to the hospitable arts Of Hermes yield their store. For, O ye Nymphs, Of arms to court your friendship? You she owns Of Thames, or Medway's vale, or the green banks The Iberian, or the Celt. The pride of kings To drive her clouds and storms; o'erwhelming all To beat the coverts, with the jovial horn Cool ease and welcome slumbers have becalm'd : urns Will I invoke; and, frequent in your praise, For not estrang'd from your benignant arts [soon Wash'd from the pregnant glebe. They drink: and When Python fell. And, O propitious Nymphs, My lyre shall pay your bounty. Scorn not ye That humble tribute. Though a mortal hand Excite the strings to utterance, yet for themes Not unregarded of celestial powers, I frame their language; and the Muses deign And offerings unprofan'd by ruder eye, And sweep their lofty strings: those powerful strings Of young Lyæus, and the dread exploits, Behold, I touch, revering. To my songs ODE TO THE RIGHT REVEREND BENJAMIN, LORD, BISHOP I. FOR toils which patriots have endur'd, To faithful story and persuasive verse! O nurse of Freedom, Albion, say, Than that where Truth, by Hoadly's aid, To him the Teacher bless'd, To Hoadly thus his mandate he address'd: II. No cold or unperforming hand Was arm'd by Heaven with this command. The world soon felt it: and, on high, To William's ear with welcome joy Did Locke among the blest unfold The rising hope of Hoadly's name, Godolphin then confirm'd the fame; And Somers, when from Earth he came, And generous Stanhope the fair sequel told. Then drew the lawgivers around, (Sires of the Grecian name renown'd,) And listening ask'd, and wondering knew, What private force could thus subdue The vulgar and the great combin'd; Could war with sacred Folly wage; Could a whole nation disengage From the dread bonds of many an age, And to new habits mould the public mind. For not a conqueror's sword, Nor the strong powers to civil founders known, Were his but truth by faithful search explor'd, And social sense, like seed, in genial plenty sown. Wherever it took root, the soul (restor'd To freedom) freedom too for others sought. Not monkish craft, the tyrant's claim divine, Not regal zeal, the bigot's cruel shrine, Could longer guard from reason's warfare sage; Not the wild rabble to sedition wrought, Nor synods by the papal genius taught, Nor St. John's spirit loose, nor Atterbury's rage. III. But where shall recompense be found? Or how such arduous merit crown'd? For look on life's laborious scene; What rugged spaces lie between Adventurous Virtue's early toils And her triumphal throne! The shade Of Death, meantime, does oft invade Her progress; nor, to us display'd, Wears the bright heroine her expected spoils. Yet born to conquer is her power: O Hoadly, if that favourite hour On Earth arrive, with thankful awe We own just Heaven's indulgent law. And proudly thy success behold; We attend thy reverend length of days With benediction and with praise, And hail thee in our public ways Like some great spirit fam'd in ages old. While thus our vows prolong Thy steps on Earth, and when by us resign'd Thou join'st thy seniors, that heroic throng Who rescued or preserv'd the rights of human kind, O! not unworthy may thy Albion's tongue Thee still, her friend and benefactor, name: O! never, Hoadly, in thy country's eyes, May impious gold, or pleasure's gaudy prize, Make public virtue, public freedom, vile; Nor our own manners tempt us to disclaim That heritage, our noblest wealth and fame, Which thou hast kept entire from force and factious guile. THOMAS GRAY. THOMAS HOMAS GRAY, a distinguished poet, was the son laureat, vacant by the death of Cibber, was offered of a money-scrivener in London, where he was to Gray, but declined by him. In the same year he born in 1716. He received his education at Eton- published two odes, "On the Progress of Poesy," school, whence he was sent to the university of and "The Bard," which were not so popular as his Cambridge, and entered as a pensioner at St. Pe- Elegy had been, chiefly, perhaps, because they were ter's College. He left Cambridge in 1738, and less understood. The uniform life passed by this occupied a set of chambers in the Inner Temple, eminent person admits of few details, but the transfor the purpose of studying the law. From this action respecting the professorship of modern history intention he was diverted by an invitation to accom- at Cambridge, a place worth four hundred pounds pany Mr. Horace Walpole, son of the celebrated a year, is worthy of some notice. When the situ statesman, with whom he had made a connection at ation became vacant in Lord Bute's administration, Eton, in a tour through Europe. Some disagree-it was modestly asked for by Gray, but had already ment, of which Mr. Walpole generously took the been bespoken by another. On a second vacancy blame, caused them to separate in Italy; and Gray in 1768, the Duke of Grafton being now in power, returned to England in September, 1741, two months it was, "unsolicited and unsuspected," conferred before his father's death. Gray, who now depended upon him; in return for which he wrote his “Ode chiefly upon his mother and aunt, left the law, and for Music," for the installation of that nobleman as returned to his retirement at Cambridge. In the chancellor of the university. This professorship, next year he had the misfortune to lose his dear though founded in 1724, had hitherto remained a friend West, also an Eton scholar, and son to the perfect sinecure; but Gray prepared himself to Chancellor of Ireland, which left a vacancy in his execute the duties of his office. Such, however, affections, that seems never to have been supplied. were the baneful effects of habitual indolence, that, From this time his residence was chiefly at Cam- with a mind replete with ancient and modern knowbridge, to which he was probably attached by an in- ledge, he found himself unable to proceed farther satiable love of books, which he was unable to gra- than to draw a plan for his inauguration speech. tify from his own stores. Some years passed in this But his health was now declining; an irregular favourite indulgence, in which his exquisite learning hereditary gout made more frequent attacks than and poetic talents were only known to a few friends; formerly; and at length, while he was dining in the and it was not till 1747, that his " Ode on a distant College-hall, he was seized with a complaint in the Prospect of Eton College" made its appearance stomach, which carried him off on July 30. 1771, in before the public. It was in 1751 that his cele- the fifty-fifth year of his age. His remains were brated "Elegy written in a Country Church-yard," deposited, with those of his mother and aunt, in the chiefly composed some years before, and even now church-yard of Stoke-Pogis, Buckinghamshire. sent into the world without the author's name, made its way to the press. Few poems were ever so popular it soon ran through eleven editions; was translated into Latin verse, and has ever since borne the marks of being one of the most favourite productions of the British Muse. In the manners of Gray there was a degree of effeminacy and fastidiousness which exposed him to the character of a fribble; and a few riotous young men of fortune in his college thought proper to make him a subject for their boisterous tricks. He made remonstrances to the heads of the society upon this usage, which being treated, as he thought, without due attention, he removed in 1756 to Pembroke-hall. In the next year, the office of poet It is exclusively as a poet that we record the name of Gray; and it will, perhaps, be thought that we borrow too large a share from a single small volume; yet this should be considered as indicative of the high rank which he has attained, compared with the number of his compositions. With respect to his character as a man of learning, since his acquisitions were entirely for his own use, and produced no fruits for the public, it has no claim to particular notice. For though he has been called by one of his admirers "perhaps the most learned man in Europe," never was learning more throwa away. A few pieces of Latin poetry are all that be has to produce. Oh, gently on thy suppliant's head, Dread goddess, lay thy chastening hand! Not in thy gorgon terrours clad, Nor circled with the vengeful band, Thy form benign, oh, goddess! wear, Thy philosophic train be there, To soften, not to wound, my heart. The generous spark extinct revive, Teach me to love and to forgive, Exact my own defects to scan, What others are, to feel, and know myself a man. ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD. THE Curfew tolls the knell of parting day, Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, 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. The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn, 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, 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. 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 peeling 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; Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or wak'd 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. |