"Smiles on past misfortune's brow While hope prolongs our happier hour; The hues of bliss more brightly glow, Our author's reputation as a poet, was so high, that on the death of Colley Cibber, 1757, he had the honour of refusing the office of Poet Laureat, to which he was probably induced by the disgrace brought upon it through the inability of some who had filled it. His curiosity some time after drew him away from Cambridge to a lodging near the British Museum, where he resided near three years, reading and transcribing. In 1762, on the death of Mr. Turner, Professor of Modern Languages and History, at Cambridge, he was, according to his own expression, "cockered and spirited up" to apply to Lord Bute for the succession. His Lordship refused him with all the politeness of a courtier, the office having been previously promised to Mr. Brocket, the tutor of Sir James Lowther. His health being on the decline, in 1765, he undertook a journey to Scotland, conceiving he should derive a benefit from exercise and change of situation. His account of that country, as far as it extends, is curious and elegant; for as his mind was comprehensive, it was employed in the contemplation of all the works of art, all the appearances of nature, and all the monuments of past events. During his stay in Scotland, he contracted a friendship with Dr. Beattie, in whom he found, as he himself expresses it, a poet, a philosopher, and a good man. Through the intervention of his friend the Doctor, the Marischal College of Aberdeen offered him the degree of Doctor of Laws, which he thought it decent to decline, having omitted to take it at Cambridge. his country should leave a memento of its regard to the merit of our poet, solicited his permission to print at the University of Glasgow, an elegant edition of his works. Gray could not comply with his friend's request, as he had given his promise to Mr. Dodsley. However, as a compliment to them both, he presented them with a copy, containing a few notes, and the imitations of the old Norwegian poetry, intended to supplant the Long Story, which was printed at first to illustrate Mr. Bentley's designs. In 1768, our author obtained that office without solicitation, for which he had before applied without effect. The Professorship of Languages and History again became vacant, and he received an offer of it from the Duke of Grafton, who had succeeded Lord Bute in office. The place was valuable in itself, the salary being 4007. a year; but it was rendered peculiarly acceptable to Mr. Gray, as he obtained it without solicitation. Soon after he succeeded to this office, the impaired state of his health rendered another journey necessary; and he visited, in 1769, the counties of Westmoreland and Cumberland. His remarks on the wonderful scenery which these northern regions display, he transmitted in epistolary journals to his friend, Dr. Wharton, which abound, according to Mr. Mason's elegant diction, with all the wildness of Salvator, and softness of Claude. He appears to have been much affected by the anxiety he felt at holding a place without discharging the duties annexed to it. He had always designed reading lectures, but never put it in practice; and a consciousness of this neglect contributed not a little to increase the malady under which he had long laboured; nay, the office at length became so irksome, that he seriously proposed to resign it. Towards the close of May, 1771, he removed from Cambridge to London, after having suffered violent attacks of an hereditary gout, to which he had long been subject, notwithstanding he had observed the most rigid abstemiousness throughout the whole course of his life. By the advice of his physicians, he removed from London to Kensington; the air of which place proved so salutary, that he was soon enabled to return to Cambridge, whence he designed to make a visit to his friend Dr. Wharton, at Old Park, near Durham; indulging a fond hope that the excursion would tend to the re-establishment of his health; but, alas! that hope proved delusive. On the 24th of July he was seized, while at dinner in the College-hall, with a sudden nausea, which obliged him to retire to his chamber. The gout had fixed on his stomach in such a degree, as to resist all the powers of medicine. On the 29th he was attacked with a strong convulsion, which returned with increased violence the ensuing day; and on the evening of the 31st of May, 1771, he In December, 1767, Dr. Beattie, still desirous that departed this life in the 55th year of his age. 81 THE POETICAL WORKS OF THOMAS GRAY. HYMN TO ADVERSITY. DAUGHTER of Jove, relentless power, With pangs unfelt before, unpitied, and alone. When first thy sire to send on Earth And bade to form her infant mind. Stern rugged nurse; thy rigid lore With patience many a year she bore: What sorrow was, thou bad'st her know, And from her own she learn'd to melt at others' woe. Scar'd at thy frown terrific, fly Wild Laughter, Noise, and thoughtless Joy, The summer friend, the flattering foe; By vain Prosperity receiv'd, To her they vow their truth, and are again believ'd. Wisdom, in sable garb array'd, Immers'd 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! Not in thy gorgon terrours clad, 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, 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, Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 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, Full many a gem of purest ray serene The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear: Full many a flow'r 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 list'ning senates to command, The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, 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, Some frail memorial still erected nigh, THE PROGRESS OF POESY. A PINDARIC ODE. AWAKE, Æolian lyre! awake, And give to rapture all thy trembling strings, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd, Deep, majestic, smooth, and strong, 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, For thee, who mindful of th' unhonour'd dead, 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, "One morn I miss'd him on the 'custom'd hill, Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he: "The next, with dirges due, in sad array, Slow thro' the churchway-path we saw him borne: Approach, and read (for thou canst read) the lay Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." THE EPITAPH. Here rests his head upon the lap of earth, He gain'd from Heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) a 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. Thro' verdant vales and Ceres' golden reign: The rocks and nodding groves re-bellow to the roar. Oh! sovereign of the willing soul, Parent of sweet and solemn-breathing airs, And frantic passions, hear thy soft control: And dropp'd his thirsty lance at thy command: Of Jove, thy magic lulls the feather'd king The terrour of his beak, and lightning of his eye. Thee the voice, the dance, obey, The rosy-crowned Loves are seen, With antic sports and blue-ey'd pleasures, Slow-melting strains their queen's approach declare: With arts sublime, that float upon the air, In gliding state she wins her easy way: O'er her warm cheek, and rising bosom, move The bloom of young Desire, and purple light of Love. II. Man's feeble race what ills await, Labour and Penury, the racks of Pain, Disease, and Sorrow's weeping train, And Death, sad refuge from the storms of Fate! The fond complaint, my song, disprove, And justify the laws of Jove. Say, has he given in vain the heavenly Muse? Night, and all her sickly dews, Her spectres wan, and birds of boding cry, He gives to range the dreary sky: Till down the eastern cliffs afar Hyperion's march they spy, and glittering shafts of war. In climes beyond the solar road, Where shaggy forms o'er ice-built mountains roam, To cheer the shivering native's dull abode. Of Chili's boundless forests laid, She deigns to hear the savage youth repeat, Their feather-cinctur'd chiefs, and dusky loves. Glory pursue, and generous Shame, Th' unconquerable mind, and Freedom's holy flame. Woods, that wave o'er Delphi's steep, Left their Parnassus, for the Latian plains. They sought, oh Albion! next thy sea-encircled coast. III. Far from the Sun and summer-gale, In thy green lap was Nature's darling* laid, To him the mighty mother did unveil Her aweful face: the dauntless child Stretch'd forth his little arms, and smil❜d. * 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 Horrour that, and thrilling fears, Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic tears. Nor second he, that rode sublime Upon the seraph-wings of Ecstacy, He pass'd the flaming bounds of place and time: The living throne, the sapphire-blaze, He saw; but, blasted with excess of light, Clos'd his eyes in endless night. Behold, where Dryden's less presumptuous car, Two coursers of ethereal race,‡ With necks in thunder cloth'd, and long-resounding pace. Hark, his hands the lyre explore! Bright-ey'd Fancy, hovering o'er, Scatters from her pictur'd urn Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn. But ah! 't is heard no more Oh! lyre divine, what daring spirit Wakes thee now? though he inherit That the Theban eagle bear, Yet oft before his infant eyes would run Beneath the good how far-but far above the great. The untaught harmony of Spring: While, whispering pleasure as they fly, Cool Zephyrs through the clear blue sky Their gather'd fragrance fling. Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch A broader, browner shade; Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech Beside soine water's rushy brink (At ease reclin'd in rustic state) Still is the toiling hand of Care; The insect youth are on the wing, And float amid the liquid noon : To Contemplation's sober eye Such is the race of man: And they that creep, and they that fly, In Fortune's varying colours drest: Methinks I hear in accents low A solitary fly! Thy joys no glittering female meets, No hive hast thou of hoarded sweets, No painted plumage to display: On hasty wings thy youth is flown: Thy sun is set, thy spring is goneWe frolic while 't is May." ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON COLLEGE. Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey, His silver-winding way. Ah, happy hills, ah, pleasing shade, Ah, fields belov'd in vain, Where once my careless childhood stray'd, A stranger yet to pain! I feel the gales, that from ye blow, A momentary bliss bestow, As waving fresh their gladsome wing, *King Henry the Sixth, founder of the college. Say, father Thames, for thou hast seen Who foremost now delight to cleave The captive linnet which enthral? To chase the rolling circle's speed While some on earnest business bent 'Gainst graver hours, that bring constraint To sweeten liberty; Some bold adventurers disdain And unknown regions dare descry: Gay Hope is theirs, by Fancy fed, The sunshine of the breast: And lively cheer of vigour born; Alas, regardless of their doom, No sense have they of ills to come, Yet see how all around them wait And black Misfortune's baleful train, Ah, show them where in ambush stand To seize their prey, the murderous band! Ah, tell them, they are men! These shall the fury passions tear, And Shame that skulks behind; Or pining Love, shall waste their youth, Or Jealousy, with rankling tooth, That inly gnaws the secret heart, And Envy wan, and faded Care, Grim-visag'd comfortless Despair, And Sorrow's piercing dart. Ambition this shall tempt to rise, Then whirl the wretch from high, To bitter Scorn a sacrifice, And grinning Infamy. The stings of Falsehood those shall try, And hard Unkindness' alter'd eye, That mocks the tear it forc'd to flow; And keen Remorse, with blood defil'd, And moody Madness laughing wild Amid severest woe. Lo, in the vale of years beneath A grisly troop are seen, The painful family of Death, More hideous than their queen : This racks the joints, this fires the veins, Those in the deeper vitals rage: To each his sufferings: all are men, The unfeeling for his own. Yet ah! why should they know their fate? And happiness too swiftly flies. ODE ON THE DEATH OF A FAVOURITE CAT, DROWNED 'T WAS on a lofty vase's side, The azure flowers that blow; She saw; and purr'd applause. The hapless nymph with wonder saw : She stretch'd in vain to reach the prize; Nor knew the gulf between. No Dolphin came, no Nereid stirr❜d; TRANSLATION FROM STATIUS. THIRD in the labours of the disk came on, With sturdy step and slow, Hippomedon; Artful and strong he pois'd the well-known weight, By Phlegyas warn'd, and fir'd by Mnestheus' fate, That to avoid and this to emulate. His vig'rous arm he try'd before he flung, Brac'd all his nerves and ev'ry sinew strung, Then with a tempest's whirl and wary eye, Pursu'd his cast, and hurl'd the orb on high; The orb on high, tenacious of its conrse, True to the mighty arm that gave it force, |