Wild sparkling rage inflames the father's eyes, 170 He bursts the bands of fear, and madly cries: 'Detested wretch!'—But scarce his speech began, When the strange partner seem'd no longer man: His youthful face grew more serenely sweet; His robe turn'd white, and flow'd upon his feet; Fair rounds of radiant points invest his hair; Celestial odours breathe through purpled air; And wings, whose colours glitter'd on the day, Wide at his back their gradual plumes display; The form ethereal bursts upon his sight, 180 And moves in all the majesty of light.

Though loud at first the pilgrim's passion grew, Sudden he gazed, and wist not what to do; Surprise in secret chains his word suspends, And in a calm his settling temper ends. But silence here the beauteous angel broke, The voice of music ravish'd as he spoke:

'Thy prayer, thy praise, thy life to vice unknown, In sweet memorial rise before the throne: These charms, success in our bright region find, 190 And force an angel down, to calm thy mind; For this commission'd, I forsook the sky— Nay, cease to kneel—thy fellow-servant I!

'Then know the truth of government divine, And let these scruples be no longer thine.

'The Maker justly claims that world He made, In this the right of Providence is laid; Its sacred majesty through all depends On using second means to work His ends: 'Tis thus, withdrawn in state from human eye, 200 The power exerts His attributes on high, Your actions uses, not controls your will, And bids the doubting sons of men "be still!"

'What strange events can strike with more surprise, Than those which lately struck thy wondering eyes? Yet, taught by these, confess the Almighty just, And where you can't unriddle, learn to trust!

'The great, vain man, who fared on costly food, Whose life was too luxurious to be good; Who made his ivory stands with goblets shine, 210 And forced his guests to morning draughts of wine, Has, with the cup, the graceless custom lost, And still he welcomes, but with less of cost.

'The mean, suspicious wretch, whose bolted door, Ne'er moved in duty to the wandering poor; With him I left the cup, to teach his mind That Heaven can bless, if mortals will be kind. Conscious of wanting worth, he views the bowl, And feels compassion touch his grateful soul. Thus artists melt the sullen ore of lead, 220 With heaping coals of fire upon its head; In the kind warmth the metal learns to glow, And, loose from dross, the silver runs below.

'Long had our pious friend in virtue trod, But now the child half-wean'd his heart from God; Child of his age, for him he lived in pain, And measured back his steps to earth again. To what excesses had his dotage run? But God, to save the father, took the son. To all but thee, in fits he seem'd to go, 230 And 'twas my ministry to deal the blow. The poor fond parent, humbled in the dust, Now owns in tears the punishment was just.

'But how had all his fortune felt a wrack, Had that false servant sped in safety back? This night his treasured heaps he meant to steal, And what a fund of charity would fail!

'Thus Heaven instructs thy mind: this trial o'er, Depart in peace, resign'd, and sin no more.'

On sounding pinions here the youth withdrew 240 The sage stood wondering as the seraph flew. Thus look'd Elisha, when, to mount on high, His master took the chariot of the sky; The fiery pomp ascending left the view; The prophet gazed, and wish'd to follow too.

The bending hermit here a prayer begun, 'Lord! as in heaven, on earth Thy will be done.' Then gladly turning, sought his ancient place, And pass'd a life of piety and peace.

[Footnote 1: 'Eager:' i. e., sharp and sour.]

* * * * *

END OF PARNELL'S POEMS.

* * * * *



THE LIFE AND POEMS

OF

THOMAS GRAY.

How dearly, at one time, and how cheaply at another, does Genius purchase immortal fame! Here a Milton

"Scorns delights, and lives laborious days,"

that he may, through sufferings, sorrows, and the strainings of a long life, pile up a large and lofty poem;—and there a Gray, in the intervals of other studies, produces a few short but exquisite verses, which become instantly and for ever popular, and render his name as dear to many, if not dearer, than that of the sublimer bard; for there are probably thousands who would prefer to have written the "Elegy written in a Country Churchyard," instead of the "Paradise Lost."

Thomas Gray was born in Cornhill, London, on the 26th December 1716. His father was Mr Philip Gray, a respectable scrivener, and his mother's name was Dorothy Antrobus. Gray was the fifth of twelve children, and the only one that survived. His life was saved in infancy by his mother, who, during a paroxysm which attacked her son, opened a vein with her own hand. This, and many other acts of maternal tenderness, rendered her memory unspeakably dear to the poet, who seldom mentioned her, after her death, "without a sigh." He was sent to study at Eton College, the happy days spent in which he has so beautifully commemorated in his "Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton College." It added to his comfort here that his maternal uncle, Mr Antrobus, was an assistant-teacher. From Eton he passed to Pembroke College, Cambridge, where he was admitted as a pensioner in 1734, in the nineteenth year of his age. He had at Eton become intimate with Horace Walpole and with Richard West, a young man of high promise, who died early. It is worth noticing that, during his residence both at Eton and Cambridge, he was supported entirely out of the separate industry of his mother, his father refusing him all aid.

At Cambridge, Gray studied very hard, attending less to mathematics than to classical literature, modern languages, history, and poetry. He aspired to be a universally accomplished as well as a minutely learned man. His compositions, from 1734 to 1738, were translations from Italian into Latin and English, and one or two small pieces of original verse. In September 1738, he returned to his father's house, and remained there for six months, doing little except carrying on a correspondence he had begun at Cambridge with West and other friends. Correspondence, from the first and to the last, was the best OUTCOME of Gray's mind—he felt himself most at home in it; and, next to Cowper's, his letters are the most delightful in the English language.

He had intended to study law, but was diverted from his purpose by Horace Walpole, who invited him to take in his Company the "grand tour." To no Briton, since Milton, could travel have been more congenial or more instructive than to Gray. He that would travel to advantage must first have travelled in mind all the countries he visits, and must be learned in their literature, their politics, their scenery, and their antiquities, ere ever he sets a foot upon their shores. To Italy and France, Gray went as to favourite studies, not as to relaxations; and spent his time in observing their famous scenes with the eye of a poet—cataloguing their paintings in the spirit of a connoisseur—perfecting his knowledge of their languages—examining minutely the principles of their architecture and music—comparing their present aspect with the old classical descriptions; and writing home an elegant epistolary account of all his sights, and all his speculations. He saw Paris—visited Geneva—passed to Florence—hurried to Rome on the tidings of Pope Clement XII's death, to see the installation of his successor—stood beside the cataracts of Tivoli and Terni, and might have seen in both, emblems of his own genius, which, like them, was beautiful and powerful, but artificial—took a rapid run to Naples, and was charmed beyond expression with its bay, its climate, and its fruitage—and was one of the first English travellers to visit Herculaneum, discovered only the year before (1739), and to wonder at that strange and solemn rehearsal of the resurrection exhibited in its streets. From Naples he returned to Florence, where he continued eleven months, and began a Latin poem, "De Principiis Cogitandi." He then, on the 24th of April 1741, set off with Walpole for Bologna and Reggio. At this latter place occurred the celebrated quarrel between the two travellers. The causes and circumstances of this are involved in considerable obscurity. Dissimilarity of tastes and habits was probably at the bottom of it. Gray was an enthusiastic scholar; Walpole was then a gay and giddy voluptuary, although predestined to sour down into the most cold-blooded and cynical of gossips. They parted at Reggio, to meet only once afterwards at Strawberry Hill, where Gray long after visited Walpole at his own invitation, but told him frankly he never could be on the same terms of friendship again. Left now to pursue his journey alone, he went to Venice, and thence came back through Padua and Milan to France. On his way between Turin and Lyons, he turned aside to see again the noble mountainous scenery surrounding the Grande Chartreuse in Dauphine; and in the album kept by the fathers wrote his Alcaic Ode, testifying to his admiration of a scene where, he says, "every precipice and cliff was pregnant, with religion and poetry."

Two months after his return to England, his father died, somewhat impoverished by improvidence. Gray, thinking himself too poor to study the law, sent his mother and a maiden sister to reside at Stoke, near Windsor, and retired to Peterhouse, Cambridge, where he resumed his classical and poetical pursuits. To West, who by this time was declining in health, he sent part of "Agrippina," a tragedy he had commenced. West objected to the length and prosiness of Agrippina's speeches. These were afterwards altered by Mason, in accordance with West's suggestions; but Gray was discouraged, and has left "Agrippina" a Torso. The subject was unpleasing. To have treated adequately the character of Nero, would have required more than the genius of Gray; and the language of the fragment is distinguished rather by rhetorical burnish than by poetical spirit and heat. We have not thought it necessary to reprint it, nor several besides of the fragmentary and inferior productions of this poet, which Mason, too, thought proper to omit.

Gray now plunged into the mare magnum of classical literature. With greater energy and exclusiveness than before, he read Thucydides, Theocritus, and Anacreon; he translated parts of Propertius, and he wrote a heroic epistle in Latin, after the manner of Ovid, and a Greek epigram. This last he communicated to West, who was now in Hertfordshire, waiting the approach of the Angel of Death. To the same dear friend he sent his "Ode to Spring," which he had written under his mother's roof at Stoke. He was too late. West was dead before it arrived. This amiable and gifted person, who was thought by many superior in natural genius to his friend, and whose name is for ever connected with that of Gray, expired on the 1st of June 1742, and now reposes in the chancel of Hatfield Church. We strongly suspect that it was he whom Gray had in his eye in the close of his "Elegy."

Autumn has often been thought propitious to genius, especially when its tender sun-light is still further sweetened and saddened by the joy of grief. In the autumn of this year, Gray, who was peculiarly susceptible to skiey influences, wrote some of his best poetry—his "Hymn to Adversity," his "Distant Prospect of Eton College," and commenced his "Elegy written in a Country Churchyard." A Sonnet in English, and the Apostrophe which opens the fourth book of his "De Principiis Cogitandi," bore testimony to his esteem for the character and his regret for the premature loss of Richard West.

To Cambridge Gray seems to have had little attachment; but partly from the smallness of his income, and partly from the access he had to its libraries, he was found there to the last, constantly complaining, and always continuing, like the statue of a murmurer. In the winter of 1742 he was admitted Bachelor of Civil Law; and in acknowledgment of the honour of the admission, began an "Address to Ignorance," which it is no great loss to his fame that he never finished. Hazlitt completed what appears to have been Gray's design in that admirable and searching paper of his, entitled, "The Ignorance of the Learned," in which he shows how ill mere learning supplies the want of common sense and practical knowledge, as well as of talent and genius.

In 1744, through the intervention of a lady, the difference between Walpole and Gray was so far made up, that they resumed their correspondence, although never their intimacy. About this time he got acquainted with Mason, then a scholar in St John's College, who became a minor Boswell to a minor Johnson; although he used liberties with Gray's correspondence and poetry, such as Boswell never durst have attempted with his idol. Mason had first introduced himself to Gray by showing him some MS. poetry. With the famous Dr Conyers Middleton, too, he became intimate, and lived to lament his death.

In 1747, Dodsley published for him his "Ode to Eton College," the first of Gray's productions which appeared in print. It excited no notice whatever. Walpole wished him to publish his poems in conjunction with the remains of West; but this he declined, on account of want of materials—perhaps also feeling the great superiority of his own poetry. At Walpole's request, however, he wrote an ode on the death of his favourite cat!

Greek became now his constant study. He read its more recondite authors, such as Pausanias, Athenaeus, Pindar, Lysias, and AEschylus, with great care, and commenced the preparation of a Table of Greek Chronology, on a very minute and elaborate scale.

In 1749 he lost his aunt, Mrs Antrobus, and her death, which he felt as a heavy affliction, led him to complete his "Elegy," which he sent to Walpole, who handed it about in MS., to the great delight of those who were privileged to peruse it. When published, it sold rapidly, and continues still the most popular of his poems.

In March 1753, his beloved and revered mother died, and he erected over her dust a monument, with an inscription testifying to the strength of his filial love and sorrow. In 1755 he finished his "Ode on the Progress of Poetry," and in the same year began his "Bard." All his poems, however short, were most laboriously composed, written and rewritten, subjected, in whole or in part, to the criticism of his friends, and, according to their verdict, either published, or left fragments, or consigned to the flames. About this time he begins, in his letters, to complain of depression of spirits, of severe attacks of the gout, of sleepless nights, feverish mornings, and heavy days. He was now, and during the rest of his life, to pay the penalty of a lettered indolence and studious sloth, of a neglected body and an over-cultivated mind. The accident, it is said, of seeing a blind Welsh harper performing on a harp, excited him to finish his "Bard," which in MS. appears to have divided the opinion of his friends, as it still does that of the critics.

In 1758 Gray left Peterhouse, owing to some real or imaginary offence, and removed to Pembroke Hall, where he was surrounded by his old and intimate friends. The next year he carried his two Odes to London, as carefully as if they had been two Epics. Walpole says that he "snatched them out of Dodsley's hands, and made them 'the first-fruits of his own press at Strawberry Hill,' where a thousand copies were printed. When published, they attracted much attention, but did not gain universal applause. Obscurity was the principal charge brought against them. Their friends, however, including Warburton, Hurd, Mason, and Garrick, were vehement in their admiration, and loud in their encomiums. In this year Colley Cibber, the laureate, died, and the office was offered to Gray, with the peculiar and highly honourable condition, that he was to hold it as a sinecure. The poet, however, refused, on the ground, as he tells Mason, that the office had 'hitherto humbled its possessor.'"

In 1758, he composed, for his amusement, a "Catalogue of the Antiquities, Houses, &c., in England and Wales," which was, after his death, printed and distributed by Mason among his friends.

The next year the British Museum was opened (15th January 1759), and Gray went to London to read and transcribe the MSS. collected there from the Harleian and Cottoman libraries. During his residence in the capital, appeared two odes to "Obscurity" and "Oblivion," in ridicule of his lyrics, from the pens of Colman and Lloyd, full of spirited satire, which failed, however, to disturb the poet's equanimity. Like many fastidious writers, he was more afraid of his own taste, and of the strictures of good-natured friends, than of the attacks of foes. In 1762 he applied for the Professorship of Modern History, vacant by the death of Turner; but it was given to Brochet, the tutor of Sir James Lowther.

In 1765 he took a tour to Scotland, and saw many of its more interesting points—Stirling, Loch Tay, the Pass of Killierankie, and Glammis Castle, where he met Beattie. He wrote a very entertaining account of the journey, in his letters to his friends. He was offered an LL.D. by the College of Aberdeen; but out of respect to his own University, declined the honour. In 1767 he added his "Imitations of Welsh and Norwegian Poetry" to his other productions. Sir Walter Scott tells us, that when Gray's poems reached the Orkney and Shetland Isles, and when the "Fatal Sisters" was repeated by a clergyman to some of the old inhabitants, they remembered having sung it all in its native language to him years before. In 1768, the Professorship of Modern History falling again vacant by Mr Brochet's death, the Duke of Grafton instantly bestowed it on Gray, who, out of gratitude, wrote an ode on the installation of his patron to the Chancellorship of Cambridge University. He went from witnessing this ceremony to the Lakes of Cumberland, and kept an interesting journal of his tour to that then little known and most enchanting region. In 1770, he visited Wales; but owing probably to poor health, has left no notes of his journey. In May the next year, his health became worse, his spirits more depressed, an incurable cough preyed on his lungs; he resigned his Professorship, and shortly after removed to London. There he rallied a little, and returned to Cambridge, where, on the 24th of July, he was seized with a severe attack of gout in the stomach. Of this he expired on the 30th, in the 55th year of his age, without any apparent fear of death. He was buried by the side of his mother, in the churchyard of Stoke. A monument was erected by Mason to his memory, in Westminster Abbey.

Gray was a brilliant bookworm. In private he was a quiet, abstracted, dreaming scholar, although in the company of a few friends he could become convivial and witty. His heart, however, was always in his study. His portrait gives you the impression of great fastidiousness, and almost feminine delicacy of face, as well as of considerable self-esteem. His face has more of the critic than of the poet. His learning and accomplishments have been equalled perhaps by no poet since Milton. He knew the Classics, the Northern Scalds, the Italian poets and historians, the French novelists, Architecture, Zoology, Painting, Sculpture, Botany, Music, and Antiquities. But he liked better, he said, to read than to write. You figure him always lounging with a volume in his hand, on a sofa, and crying out, "Be mine to read eternal novels of Marivaux and Crebillon." Against his moral character there exists no imputation; and notwithstanding a sneering hint of Walpole's, his religious creed seems to have been orthodox.

With all his learning and genius, he has done little. His letters and poems remind you of a few scattered leaves, surviving the conflagration of the Alexandrian library. The very popularity of the scraps which such a writer leaves, secures the torments of Tantalus to his numerous admirers in all after ages. His letters, in their grace, freedom, minuteness of detail, occasional playfulness, delicious asides of gossip, and easy vigour of description, are more worthy of his powers, as a whole, than his poetry. The poetic fragments he has left are rarely of such merit as to excite any wish that they had been finished. His genius, although true and exquisite, was limited in its range, and hidebound in its movements. You see his genius, like a child, always casting a look of terror round on its older companion and guardian—his taste. Like Campbell, "he often spreads his wings grandly, but shrinks back timidly to his perch again, and seems afraid of the shadow of his own fame." Within his own range, however, he is as strong as he is delicate and refined. His two principal Odes have, as we hinted, divided much the opinion of critics. Dr Johnson has assailed them in his worst style of captious and word-catching criticism. Now, that there is much smoke around their fire, we grant. But we argue that there is genuine fire amidst their smoke,—first, from the fact that so many of their lines, such as,

"The bloom of young Desire, and purple light of Love;" "The terror of his beak, and lightnings of his eye;" "Their feather-cinctured chiefs, and dusky loves;" "Sailing with supreme dominion Through the azure deep of air;" "Beneath the good how far, but far above the great" "High-born Hoel's harp, and soft Llewellyn's lay,"

are so often and admiringly quoted; and because, secondly, we can trace the influence of the "Progress of Poetry," and of the "Bard," on much of the higher song that has succeeded,—on the poetry of Bowles, Coleridge, Wordsworth, Campbell, and Shelley. Gray was not a sun shining in his strength, but he was the morning star, prognosticating the coming of a warmer and brighter poetic day.

He that can see no merit in the "Ode on the Distant Prospect of Eton College," can surely never have been a boy. The boy's heart beats in its every line, and yet all the experiences of boyhood are seen and shown in the sober light of those

"Years which bring the philosophic mind."

Here lies the complex charm of the poem. The unthinking gaiety of boyhood, its light sports, its airy gladness, its springy motions, the "tears forgot as soon as shed," the "sunshine of the breast" of that delightful period—are contrasted with the still and often sombre reflection, the grave joys, the carking cares, the stern concentred passions, the serious pastimes, the spare but sullen and burning tears, the sad smiles of manhood; and contrasted by one who is realising both with equal vividness and intensity—because he is in age a man, and in memory and imagination an Eton schoolboy still. The breezes of boyhood return and blow on a head on which gray hairs are beginning "here and there" to whiten; and he cries—

"I feel the gales that from ye blow A momentary bliss bestow, As, waving fresh their gladsome wing, My weary soul they seem to soothe, And redolent of joy and youth, To breathe a second spring."

Dr Johnson makes a peculiarly poor and unworthy objection to the next stanza of the poem. Speaking of the address to the Thames—

"Say, Father Thames, for thou hast seen Full many a sprightly race;"

he says, "Father Thames has no better means of knowing than himself." He should have left this objection to those wretched mechanical critics who abound in the present day. He forgot that in his own "Rasselas" he had invoked the Nile, as the great "Father of waters," to tell, if, in any of the provinces through which he rolled, he did not hear the language of distress. Critics, like liars, should have good memories.

His remark that the "Prospect of Eton College" suggests nothing to Gray which every beholder does not equally think and feel, is, in reality, a compliment to the simplicity and naturalness of the strain. Common thought and feeling crystalised, is the staple of much of our best poetry. Gray says in a poetical way, what every one might have thought and felt, but no one but he could have so beautifully expressed. To the spirited translations from the Norse and Welsh, the only objection urged by Dr Johnson is, that their "language is unlike the language of other poets"—an objection which would tell still more powerfully against Milton, Collins, and Young, not to speak of the "chartered libertines" of our more modern song. But a running growl of prejudice is heard in every sentence of Gray's Life by Johnson, and tends far more to injure the critic than the poet.

In his "Elegy written in a Country Churchyard," Gray has caught, concentred, and turned into a fine essence, the substance of a thousand meditations among the tombs. One of its highest points of merit, conceded by Dr Johnson, is essentially the same with which he had found fault in the "Ode to Eton College." "The poem abounds with images which find a mirror in every mind, and with sentiments to which every bosom returns an echo." Everything is in intense keeping. The images are few, but striking; the language is severely simple; the thought is at once obvious and original, at once clear and profound, and many of the couplets seem carefully and consciously chiselled for immortality, to become mottoes for every churchyard in the kingdom, and to "teach the rustic moralist to die," while the country remains beautiful, and while death continues to inspire fear. And with what daring felicity of genius does the author introduce, ere the close, a living but anonymous figure amidst the company of the silent dead, and contrive to unite the interest of a personal story, the charm of a mystery, and the solemnity of a moral meditation, into one fine whole! We know of but one objection of much weight to this exquisite elegy. There is scarcely the faintest or most faltering allusion to the doctrine of the resurrection. Death has it all his own way in this citadel of his power. The poet never points his finger to the distant horizon, where life and immortality are beginning to colour the clouds with the promise of the eternal morning. The elegy might almost have been written by a Pagan. In this point, Beattie, in his "Hermit," has much the advantage of his friend Gray; for his eye is anointed to behold a blessed vision, and his voice is strengthened thus to sing—

"On the pale cheek of Death smiles and roses are blending, And Beauty immortal awakes from the tomb."

Nevertheless, had Gray been known, not for his scholarship, not for his taste, not for his letters and minor poems, not for his reputed powers and unrivalled accomplishments, but solely for this elegy—had only it and his mere name survived, it alone would have entitled him to rank with Britain's best poets.

* * * * *

GRAY'S POEMS.

ODES.

I.—ON THE SPRING.

1. Lo! where the rosy-bosom'd Hours, Fair Venus' train, appear, Disclose the long-expecting flowers, And wake the purple year! The Attic warbler pours her throat Responsive to the cuckoo's note, The untaught harmony of Spring: While, whispering pleasure as they fly, Cool Zephyrs through the clear blue sky Their gather'd fragrance fling.

2. Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch A broader, browner shade. Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech O'ercanopies the glade, Beside some water's rushy brink With me the Muse shall sit, and think (At ease reclined in rustic state) How vain the ardour of the crowd, How low, how little, are the proud, How indigent the great!

3. Still is the toiling hand of Care; The panting herds repose: Yet hark! how through the peopled air The busy murmur glows! The insect youth are on the wing, Eager to taste the honied spring, And float amid the liquid noon; Some lightly o'er the current skim, Some show their gaily gilded trim, Quick glancing to the sun.

4. To Contemplation's sober eye, Such is the race of Man, And they that creep, and they that fly, Shall end where they began. Alike the busy and the gay But flutter through life's little day, In Fortune's varying colours dress'd; Brush'd by the hand of rough Mischance, Or chill'd by Age, their airy dance They leave, in dust to rest.

5. Methinks I hear, in accents low, The sportive kind reply, Poor Moralist! and what art thou? 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 gone— We frolic while 'tis May.

* * * * *

II.—ON THE DEATH OF A FAVOURITE CAT,

DROWNED IN A CHINA TUB OF GOLD FISHES.

1. 'Twas on a lofty vase's side, Where China's gayest art had dyed The azure flowers that blow, Demurest of the tabby kind, The pensive Selima, reclined, Gazed on the lake below.

2. Her conscious tail her joy declared; The fair round face, the snowy beard, The velvet of her paws, Her coat that with the tortoise vies, Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes, She saw, and purr'd applause.

3. Still had she gazed, but,' midst the tide, Two angel forms were seen to glide, The Genii of the stream; Their scaly armour's Tyrian hue, Through richest purple, to the view Betray'd a golden gleam.

4. The hapless nymph with wonder saw; A whisker first, and then a claw, With many an ardent wish, She stretch'd in vain to reach the prize: What female heart can gold despise? What cat's averse to fish?

5. Presumptuous maid! with looks intent, Again she stretch'd, again she bent, Nor knew the gulf between: (Maligant Fate sat by and smiled,) The slippery verge her feet beguiled; She tumbled headlong in.

6. Eight times emerging from the flood, She mew'd to every watery god Some speedy aid to send. No Dolphin came, no Nereid stirr'd, Nor cruel Tom or Susan heard: A favourite has no friend!

7. From hence, ye beauties! undeceived, Know one false step is ne'er retrieved, And be with caution bold: Not all that tempts your wandering eyes, And heedless hearts, is lawful prize, Nor all that glisters gold.

* * * * *

III—ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON COLLEGE.

[Greek: Anthropos ikanae profasis eis to dustuchein]

MENANDER.

1 Ye distant spires! ye antique towers! That crown the watery glade Where grateful Science still adores Her Henry's (1) holy shade; And ye that from the stately brow Of Windsor's heights the expanse below Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey, Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among Wanders the hoary Thames along His silver-winding way:

2 Ah, happy hills! ah, pleasing shade! Ah, fields beloved 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, My weary soul they seem to soothe, And, redolent of joy and youth, To breathe a second spring.

3 Say, father Thames! for thou hast seen Full many a sprightly race, Disporting on thy margent green, The paths of pleasure trace, Who foremost now delight to cleave With pliant arm thy glassy wave? The captive linnet which enthral? What idle progeny succeed To chase the rolling circle's speed, Or urge the flying ball?

4 While some, on earnest business bent, Their murmuring labours ply, 'Gainst graver hours, that bring constraint, To sweeten liberty: Some bold adventurers disdain The limits of their little reign, And unknown regions dare descry; Still as they run they look behind. They hear a voice in every wind, And snatch a fearful joy.

5 Gay Hope is theirs, by Fancy fed, Less pleasing when possess'd; The tear forgot as soon as shed, The sunshine of the breast; Theirs buxom health of rosy hue, Wild wit, invention ever new, And lively cheer, of vigour born; The thoughtless day, the easy night, The spirits pure, the slumbers light, That fly the approach of morn.

6 Alas! regardless of their doom, The little victims play; No sense have they of ills to come, Nor care beyond to-day: Yet see how all around them wait, The ministers of human fate, 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!

7 These shall the fury Passions tear, The vultures of the mind, Disdainful Anger, pallid Fear, And Shame that skulks behind; Or pining Love shall waste their youth, Or Jealousy, with rankling teeth, That inly gnaws the secret heart; And Envy wan, and faded Care, Grim-visaged, comfortless Despair, And Sorrow's piercing dart.

8 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 forced to flow; And keen Remorse, with blood defiled, And moody Madness, laughing wild Amid severest woe.

9 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, That every labouring sinew strains, Those in the deeper vitals rage; Lo! Poverty, to fill the band, That numbs the soul with icy hand, And slow-consuming Age.

10 To each his sufferings; all are men Condemn'd alike to groan; The tender for another's pain, The unfeeling for his own. Yet ah! why should they know their fate, Since sorrow never comes too late, And happiness too swiftly flies? Thought would destroy their paradise— No more; where ignorance is bliss, 'Tis folly to be wise.

[Footnote: (1) 'Henry:' King Henry VI., founder of the College.]

* * * * *

IV.—HYMN TO ADVERSITY.

[Greek:

Zaena ... Ton phronein brotous odosanta, to pathei mathos phenta kurios echein.

AESCH. AG. 167.]

1 Daughter of Jove, relentless Power, Thou tamer of the human breast, Whose iron scourge and torturing hour The bad affright, afflict the best! Bound in thy adamantine chain, The proud are taught to taste of pain, And purple tyrants vainly groan With pangs unfelt before, unpitied and alone.

2 When first thy Sire to send on earth, Virtue, his darling child, design'd, To thee he gave the heavenly birth, And bade to form her infant mind: Stern rugged nurse! thy rigid lore With patience many a year she bore; What sorrow was thou badest her know, And from her own she learn'd to melt at others' woe.

3 Scared at thy frown, terrific fly Self-pleasing Folly's idle brood, Wild Laughter, Noise, and thoughtless Joy, And leave us leisure to be good. Light they disperse; and with them go The summer friend, the flattering foe; By vain Prosperity received, To her they vow their truth, and are again believed.

4 Wisdom, in sable garb array'd, Immersed 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.

5 Oh! gently on thy suppliant's head, Dread Goddess! lay thy chastening hand, Not in thy Gorgon terrors clad, Nor circled with the vengeful band: (As by the impious thou art seen), With thundering voice and threatening mien, With screaming Horror's funeral cry, Despair, and fell Disease, and ghastly Poverty.

6 Thy form benign, O Goddess! wear, Thy milder influence impart, 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.

* * * * *

V.—THE PROGRESS OF POESY.

PINDARIC.

ADVERTISEMENT.—When the author first published this and the following ode, he was advised, even by his friends, to subjoin some few explanatory notes, but had too much respect for the understanding of his readers to take that liberty.

[Greek:

Phonanta sunetoisin es De to pan hermaeneon Chatizei.— PINDAR, Olymp. ii.]

I.—1.

Awake, Aeolian lyre! awake, And give to rapture all thy trembling strings; From Helicon's harmonious springs A thousand rills their mazy progress take; The laughing flowers, that round them blow, Drink life and fragrance as they flow. Now the rich stream of music winds along, Deep, majestic, smooth, and strong, Through verdant vales and Ceres' golden reign; Now rolling down the steep amain, Headlong, impetuous, see it pour; The rocks and nodding groves rebellow to the roar.

I.—2.

Oh! Sovereign of the willing soul, Parent of sweet and solemn-breathing airs, Enchanting Shell! the sullen Cares And frantic Passions hear thy soft control. On Thracia's hills the Lord of War Has curb'd the fury of his car, And dropp'd his thirsty lance at thy command: Perching on the sceptred hand Of Jove, thy magic lulls the feather'd king With ruffled plumes and flagging wing: Quench'd in dark clouds of slumber lie The terror of his beak and lightnings of his eye.

I.—3.

Thee the voice, the dance obey, Temper'd to thy warbled lay: O'er India's velvet green The rosy-crowned Loves are seen, On Cytherea's day, With antic Sports and blue-eyed Pleasures Frisking light in frolic measures: Now pursuing, now retreating, Now in circling troops they meet; To brisk notes in cadence beating, Glance their many-twinkling feet. Slow-melting strains their Queen's approach declare Where'er she turns, the Graces homage pay; With arms 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.—1.

Man's feeble race what life 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.

II.—2.

In climes beyond the Solar road, Where shaggy forms o'er ice-built mountains roam, The Muse has broke the twilight-gloom To cheer the shivering native's dull abode; And oft beneath the odorous shade Of Chili's boundless forests laid, She deigns to hear the savage youth repeat, In loose numbers, wildly sweet, Their feather-cinctured chiefs and dusky loves. Her track, where'er the Goddess roves, Glory pursue, and generous Shame, The unconquerable mind, and freedom's holy flame.

II.—3.

Woods that wave o'er Delphi's steep, Isles that crown the AEgean deep, Fields that cool Ilissus laves, Or where Meander's amber waves In lingering labyrinths creep, I How do your tuneful echoes languish, Mute but to the voice of Anguish? Where each old poetic mountain Inspiration breathed around; Every shade and hallow'd fountain Murmur'd deep a solemn sound, Till the sad Nine, in Greece's evil hour, Left their Parnassus for the Latian plains: Alike they scorn the pomp of tyrant Power And coward Vice, that revels in her chains. When Latium had her lofty spirit lost, They sought, O Albion! next thy sea-encircled coast.

III.—1.

Far from the sun and summer-gale, In thy green lap was Nature's darling laid, What time, where lucid Avon stray'd, To him the mighty Mother did unveil Her awful face; the dauntless child Stretch'd forth his little arms, and smiled. 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 Horror that, and thrilling Pears, Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic Tears.

III.—2.

Nor second He that rode sublime Upon the seraph-wings of Ecstasy; The secrets of the abyss to spy, He pass'd the flaming bounds of place and time: The living throne, the sapphire-blaze, Where angels tremble while they gaze, He saw; but, blasted with excess of light, Closed his eyes in endless night. Behold where Dryden's less presumptuous car Wide o'er the fields of glory bear Two coursers[1] of ethereal race, With necks in thunder clothed and long-resounding pace.

III.—3.

Hark! his hands the lyre explore! Bright-eyed Fancy, hovering o'er, Scatters from her pictured urn Thoughts that breathe and words that burn; But ah! 'tis heard no more. O lyre divine! what dying spirit[2] Wakes thee now? though he inherit Nor the pride nor ample pinion That the Theban eagle[3] bear, Sailing with supreme dominion Through the azure deep of air, Yet oft before his infant eyes would run Such forms as glitter in the Muse's ray With orient hues, unborrow'd of the sun; Yet shall he mount, and keep his distant way Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate, Beneath the good how far—but far above the great.

[Footnote 1: 'Coursers:' the heroic rhymes.]

[Footnote 2: 'Dying spirit:' Cowley.]

[Footnote 3: 'Theban eagle:' Pindar.]

* * * * *

VI—THE BARD.

PINDARIC.

ADVERTISEMENT.—The following ode is founded on a tradition current in Wales, that Edward I., when he completed the conquest of that country, ordered all the bards that fell into his hands to be put to death.

I.—1.

'Ruin seize thee, ruthless King! Confusion on thy banners wait; Though fann'd by Conquest's crimson wing, They mock the air with idle state. Helm nor hauberk's[1] twisted mail, Nor even thy virtues, Tyrant! shall avail To save thy secret soul from nightly fears; From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears!' Such were the sounds that o'er the crested pride Of the first Edward scatter'd wild dismay, As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side He wound with toilsome march his long array: Stout Glo'ster[2] stood aghast in speechless trance: To arms! cried Mortimer,[3] and couch'd his quivering lance.

I.—2.

On a rock, whose haughty brow Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood, Robed in the sable garb of woe, With haggard eyes the poet stood; (Loose his beard and hoary hair, Stream'd like a meteor to the troubled air,) And with a master's hand and prophet's fire Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre: 'Hark how each giant oak and desert cave Sighs to the torrent's awful voice beneath! O'er thee, O King! their hundred arms they wave, Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe; Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day, To high-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llewellyn's lay.

I.—3.

'Cold is Cadwallo's tongue That hush'd the stormy main; Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed: Mountains! ye moan in vain Modrid, whose magic song Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topp'd head. On dreary Arvon's shore[4] they lie, Smear'd with gore and ghastly pale; Far, far aloof the affrighted ravens sail; The famish'd eagle screams and passes by. Dear lost companions of my tuneful art! Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes, Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart, Ye died amidst your dying country's cries— No more I weep. They do not sleep: On yonder cliffs, a grisly band, I see them sit; they linger yet, Avengers of their native land: With me in dreadful harmony they join, And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line.

II.—1.

"Weave the warp and weave the woof, The winding-sheet of Edward's race: Give ample room and verge enough The characters of Hell to trace. Mark the year and mark the night When Severn shall re-echo with affright The shrieks of death through Berkley's roofs that ring, Shrieks of an agonising king![5] She-wolf of France,[6] with unrelenting fangs That tear'st the bowels of thy mangled mate, From thee[7] be born who o'er thy country hangs The scourge of Heaven. What terrors round him wait! Amazement in his van, with Flight combined, And Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude behind.

II.—2.

"Mighty Victor, mighty Lord, Low on his funeral couch[8] he lies! No pitying heart, no eye afford A tear to grace his obsequies! Is the sable warrior[9] fled? Thy son is gone; he rests among the dead. The swarm that in thy noontide beam were born, Gone to salute the rising morn: Fair laughs the morn,[10] and soft the Zephyr blows, While, proudly riding o'er the azure realm, In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes, Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm, Regardless of the sweeping whirlwind's sway, That, hush'd in grim repose, expects his evening prey.

II.—3.

"Fill high the sparkling bowl,[11] The rich repast prepare; Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast. Close by the regal chair Fell Thirst and Famine scowl A baleful smile upon the baffled guest. Heard ye the din of battle bray,[12] Lance to lance and horse to horse? Long years of havoc urge their destined course, And through the kindred squadrons mow their way; Ye Towers of Julius![13] London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed, Revere his consort's[14] faith, his father's[15] fame, And spare the meek usurper's[16] holy head. Above, below, the Rose of snow,[17] Twined with her blushing foe, we spread; The bristled Boar[18] in infant gore Wallows beneath the thorny shade; Now, Brothers! bending o'er the accursed loom, Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom.

III.—I.

"Edward, lo! to sudden fate (Weave we the woof; the thread is spun:) Half of thy heart[19] we consecrate; (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[20] we bewail: All hail, ye genuine Kings![21] 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; In the midst a form divine, Her eye proclaims her of the Briton-line, Her lion-port, her awe-commanding face,[22] 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,[23] hear! They breathe a soul to animate thy clay. Bright Rapture calls, and, soaring as she sings, Waves in the eye of Heaven her many-colour'd wings.

III.—3.

'The verse adorn again, Fierce War and faithful Love, And Truth severe, by fairy Fiction dress'd. In buskin'd measures move Pale Grief, and pleasing Pain, With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast. A voice[24] as of the cherub-choir Gales from blooming Eden bear, And distant warblings[25] lessen on my ear, 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.

[Footnote 1: 'Hauberk:' the hauberk was a texture of steel ringlets or rings interwoven, forming a coat of mail that sat close to the body, and adapted itself to every motion.]

[Footnote 2: 'Stout Glo'ster:' Gilbert de Clare, surnamed the Red, Earl of Gloucester and Hertford, son-in-law to King Edward.]

[Footnote 3: 'Mortimer:' Edmond de Mortimer, Lord of Wigmore. They both were Lords Marchers, whose lands lay on the borders of Wales, and probably accompanied the King in this expedition.]

[Footnote 4: 'Arvon's shore:' the shores of Caernarvonshire, opposite to the isle of Anglesey.]

[Footnote 5: 'King:' Edward II., cruelly butchered in Berkley Castle.]

[Footnote 6: 'She-wolf of France:' Isabel of France, Edward II.'s adulterous queen.]

[Footnote 7: 'From thee:' triumphs of Edward III. in France.]

[Footnote 8: 'Funeral couch:' death of that king, abandoned by his children, and even robbed in his last moments by his courtiers and his mistress.]

[Footnote 9: 'Sable warrior:' Edward the Black Prince, dead some time before his father.]

[Footnote 10: 'Fair laughs the morn:' magnificence of Richard II.'s reign; see Froissard, and other contemporary writers.]

[Footnote 11: 'Sparkling bowl:' Richard II. was starved to death; the story of his assassination by Sir Piers of Exon is of much later date.]

[Footnote 12: 'Battle bray:' ruinous civil wars of York and Lancaster.]

[Footnote 13: 'Towers of Julius:' Henry VI., George Duke of Clarence, Edward V., Richard Duke of York, &c., believed to be murdered secretly in the Tower of London; the oldest part of that structure is vulgarly attributed to Julius Caesar.]

[Footnote 14: 'Consort:' Margaret of Anjou.]

[Footnote 15: 'Father:' Henry V.]

[Footnote 16: 'Usurper:' Henry VI., very near being canonised; the line of Lancaster had no right of inheritance to the crown.]

[Footnote 17: 'Rose of snow:' the White and Red Roses, devices of York and Lancaster.]

[Footnote 18: 'Boar:' the silver Boar was the badge of Richard III., whence he was usually known in his own time by the name of The Boar.]

[Footnote 19: 'Half of thy heart:' Eleanor of Castile, Edward's wife, died a few years after the conquest of Wales.]

[Footnote 20: 'Long-lost Arthur:' it was the common belief of the Welsh nation, that King Arthur was still alive in Fairyland, and should return again to reign over Britain.]

[Footnote 21: 'Genuine kings:' 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.]

[Footnote 22; 'Awe-commanding face:' Queen Elizabeth.]

[Footnote 23: 'Taliessin:' chief of the Bards, flourished in the sixth century; his works are still preserved, and his memory held in high veneration, among his countrymen.]

[Footnote 24: 'A voice:' Milton.]

[Footnote 25: 'Warblings:' the succession of poets after Milton's time.]

* * * * *

VII.—THE FATAL SISTERS.

FROM THE NORSE TONGUE.[1]

'Vitt er orpit Fyrir valfalli.'

ADVERTISEMENT.—The author once had thoughts (in concert with a friend) of giving a history of English poetry. In the introduction to it he meant to have produced some specimens of the style that reigned in ancient times among the neighbouring nations, or those who had subdued the greater part of this island, and were our progenitors: the following three imitations made a part of them. He afterwards dropped his design; especially after he had heard that it was already in the hands of a person[2] well qualified to do it justice both by his taste and his researches into antiquity.

PREFACE.—In the eleventh century, Sigurd, Earl of the Orkney Islands, went with a fleet of ships, and a considerable body of troops, into Ireland, to the assistance of Sigtryg with the Silken Beard, who was then making war on his father-in-law, Brian, King of Dublin. The Earl and all his forces were cut to pieces, and Sigtryg was in danger of a total defeat; but the enemy had a greater loss by the death of Brian, their king, who fell in the action. On Christmas-day (the day of the battle) a native of Caithness, in Scotland, saw, at a distance, a number of persons on horseback riding full speed towards a hill, and seeming to enter into it. Curiosity led him to follow them, till, looking through an opening in the rocks, he saw twelve gigantic figures,[3] resembling women: they were all employed about a loom; and as they wove they sung the following dreadful song, which, when they had finished, they tore the web into twelve pieces, and each taking her portion, galloped six to the north, and as many to the south.

1 Now the storm begins to lower, (Haste, the loom of Hell prepare!) Iron-sleet of arrowy shower Hurtles in the darken'd air.

2 Glittering lances are the loom Where the dusky warp we strain, Weaving many a soldier's doom, Orkney's woe and Randver's bane.

3 See the grisly texture grow, ('Tis of human entrails made,) And the weights that play below, Each a gasping warrior's head.

4 Shafts for shuttles, dipp'd in gore, Shoot the trembling cords along: Sword, that once a monarch bore, Keep the tissue close and strong.

5 Mista, black, terrific maid! Sangrida and Hilda see, Join the wayward work to aid: 'Tis the woof of victory.

6 Ere the ruddy sun be set, Pikes must shiver, javelins sing, Blade with clattering buckler meet, Hauberk crash, and helmet ring.

7 (Weave the crimson web of war) Let us go, and let us fly, Where our friends the conflict share, Where they triumph, where they die.

8 As the paths of Fate we tread, Wading through th' ensanguined field, Gondula and Geira spread O'er the youthful king your shield.

9 We the reins to Slaughter give, Ours to kill and ours to spare: Spite of danger he shall live; (Weave the crimson web of war.)

10 They whom once the desert beach Pent within its bleak domain, Soon their ample sway shall stretch O'er the plenty of the plain.

11 Low the dauntless earl is laid, Gored with many a gaping wound: Fate demands a nobler head; Soon a king shall bite the ground.

12 Long his loss shall Eirin[4] weep, Ne'er again his likeness see; Long her strains in sorrow steep, Strains of immortality!

13 Horror covers all the heath, Clouds of carnage blot the sun: Sisters! weave the web of death: Sisters! cease; the work is done.

14 Hail the task and hail the hands! Songs of joy and triumph sing! Joy to the victorious bands, Triumph to the younger king!

15 Mortal! thou that hear'st the tale, Learn the tenor of our song; Scotland! through each winding vale Far and wide the notes prolong.

16 Sisters! hence with spurs of speed; Each her thundering falchion wield; Each bestride her sable steed: Hurry, hurry, to the field.

[Footnote 1: 'Norse tongue:' to be found in the Orcades of Thormodus Torfaeus, Hafniae, 1697, folio; and also in Bartholinus.]

[Footnote 2: 'Person:' Percy, author of 'Reliques of Ancient English Poetry.']

[Footnote 3: 'Figures:' the Valkyriur were female divinities, servants of Odin (or Woden) in the Gothic mythology. Their name signifies 'Choosers of the Slain.' They were mounted on swift horses, with drawn swords in their hands, and in the throng of battle selected such as were destined to slaughter, and conducted them to Valkalla, (the Hall of Odin, or Paradise of the Brave), where they attended the banquet, and served the departed heroes with horns of mead and ale.]

[Footnote 4: 'Eirin:' Ireland.]

* * * * *

VIII.—THE DESCENT OF ODIN.

FROM THE NORSE TONGUE.[1]

'Upreis Odinn Allda gautr.'

Uprose the King of Men with speed, And saddled straight his coal-black steed; Down the yawning steep he rode That leads to Hela's[2] drear abode. Him the Dog of Darkness spied; His shaggy throat he open'd wide, While from his jaws, with carnage fill'd, Foam and human gore distill'd: Hoarse he bays with hideous din, Eyes that glow and fangs that grin, 10 And long pursues with fruitless yell The Father of the powerful spell. Onward still his way he takes, —The groaning earth beneath him shakes,— Till full before his fearless eyes The portals nine of Hell arise. Right against the eastern gate, By the moss-grown pile he sate, Where long of yore to sleep was laid The dust of the prophetic maid. 20 Facing to the northern clime, Thrice he traced the Runic rhyme, Thrice pronounced, in accents dread, The thrilling verse that wakes the dead, Till from out the hollow ground Slowly breathed a sullen sound.

Proph. What call unknown, what charms presume To break the quiet of the tomb? Who thus afflicts my troubled sprite, And drags me from the realms of Night? 30 Long on these mouldering bones have beat The winter's snow, the summer's heat, The drenching dews and driving rain! Let me, let me sleep again. Who is he, with voice unblest, That calls me from the bed of rest?

Odin. A traveller, to thee unknown, Is he that calls, a warrior's son. Thou the deeds of light shalt know; Tell me what is done below, 40 For whom yon glittering board is spread; Dress'd for whom yon golden bed?

Proph. Mantling in the goblet see The pure beverage of the bee, O'er it hangs the shield of gold; 'Tis the drink of Balder bold: Balder's head to death is given; Pain can reach the sons of Heaven! Unwilling I my lips unclose; Leave me, leave me to repose. 50

Odin. Once again my call obey: Prophetess! arise, and say, What dangers Odin's child await, Who the author of his fate?

Proph. In Hoder's hand the hero's doom; His brother sends him to the tomb. Now my weary lips I close; Leave me, leave me to repose.

Odin. Prophetess! my spell obey; Once again arise, and say, 60 Who the avenger of his guilt, By whom shall Hoder's blood be spilt?

Proph. In the caverns of the west, By Odin's fierce embrace compress'd, A wondrous boy shall Rinda bear, Who ne'er shall comb his raven hair, Nor wash his visage in the stream, Nor see the sun's departing beam, Till he on Hoder's corse shall smile, Flaming on the funeral pile. 70 Now my weary lips I close; Leave me, leave me to repose.

Odin. Yet a while my call obey: Prophetess! awake, and say, What virgins these, in speechless woe, That bend to earth their solemn brow, That their flaxen tresses tear, And snowy veils that float in air? Tell we whence their sorrows rose, Then I leave thee to repose. 80

Proph. Ha! no traveller art thou; King of Men, I know thee now; Mightiest of a mighty line—

Odin. No boding maid of skill divine Art thou, no prophetess of good, But mother of the giant-brood!

Proph. Hie thee hence, and boast at home, That never shall inquirer come To break my iron-sleep again, Till Lok[3] has burst his tenfold chain; 90 Never till substantial Night Has re-assumed her ancient right; Till, wrapp'd in flames, in ruin hurl'd, Sinks the fabric of the world.

[Footnote 1: 'Norse Tongue:' to be found in Bartholinus, De Causis Contemnendae Mortis: Hafniae, 1689, quarto.]

[Footnote 2: 'Hela:' Niflheimr, the hell of the Gothic nations, consisted of nine worlds, to which were devoted all such as died of sickness, old age, or by any other means than in battle: over it presided Hela, the goddess of Death.]

[Footnote 3: 'Lok:' is the evil being, who continues in chains till the twilight of the gods approaches, when he shall break his bonds; the human race, the stars, and sun, shall disappear, the earth sink in the seas, and fire consume the skies: even Odin himself, and his kindred deities, shall perish.]

* * * * *

IX.—THE DEATH OF HOEL.[1]

Had I but the torrent's might, With headlong rage, and wild affright, Upon Deira's[2] squadrons hurl'd, To rush and sweep them from the world! Too, too secure in youthful pride, By them my friend, my Hoel, died, Great Cian's son; of Madoc old He ask'd no heaps of hoarded gold; Alone in Nature's wealth array'd, He ask'd and had the lovely maid. 10

To Cattraeth's[3] vale, in glittering row, Twice two hundred warriors go; Every warrior's manly neck Chains of regal honour deck, Wreath'd in many a golden link: From the golden cup they drink Nectar that the bees produce, Or the grape's ecstatic juice. Flush'd with mirth and hope they burn: But none from Cattraeth's vale return, 20 Save Aeron brave and Conan strong, —Bursting through the bloody throng— And I, the meanest of them all, That live to weep and sing their fall.

[Footnote 1: 'Hoel:' from the Welsh of Aneurim, styled 'The Monarch of the Bards.' He flourished about the time of Taliessin, A.D. 570. This ode is extracted from the Gododin.]

[Footnote 2: 'Deira:' a kingdom including the five northernmost counties of England.]

[Footnote 3: 'Cattraeth:' a great battle lost by the ancient Britons.]

* * * * *

X.—THE TRIUMPH OF OWEN:

A FRAGMENT FROM THE WELSH.

ADVERTISEMENT.—Owen succeeded his father Griffin in the Principality of North Wales, A.D. 1120: this battle was near forty years afterwards.

Owen's praise demands my song, Owen swift, and Owen strong, Fairest flower of Roderick's stem, Gwyneth's[1] shield and Britain's gem. He nor heaps his brooded stores, Nor on all profusely pours; Lord of every regal art, Liberal hand and open heart.

Big with hosts of mighty name, Squadrons three against him came; 10 This the force of Eirin hiding; Side by side as proudly riding On her shadow long and gay Lochlin[2] ploughs the watery way; There the Norman sails afar Catch the winds and join the war; Black and huge, along they sweep, Burthens of the angry deep.

Dauntless on his native sands The Dragon son[3] of Mona stands; 20 In glittering arms and glory dress'd, High he rears his ruby crest; There the thundering strokes begin, There the press and there the din: Talymalfra's rocky shore Echoing to the battle's roar! Check'd by the torrent-tide of blood, Backward Meniai rolls his flood; While, heap'd his master's feet around, Prostrate warriors gnaw the ground. 30 Where his glowing eye-balls turn, Thousand banners round him burn; Where he points his purple spear, Hasty, hasty rout is there; Marking, with indignant eye, Fear to stop and Shame to fly: There Confusion, Terror's child, Conflict fierce, and Ruin wild, Agony, that pants for breath, Despair and honourable Death. 40

[Footnote 1: 'Gwyneth:' North Wales.]

[Footnote 2: 'Lochlin:' Denmark.]

[Footnote 3: 'Dragon son:' the Red Dragon is the device of Cadwalladar, which all his descendants bore on their banners.]

* * * * *

XI.—FOR MUSIC.[1]

I.

'Hence, avaunt! ('tis holy ground,) Comus and his midnight crew, And Ignorance, with looks profound, And dreaming Sloth, of pallid hue, Mad Sedition's cry profane, Servitude that hugs her chain, Nor in these consecrated bowers, Let painted Flattery hide her serpent-train in flowers;

CHORUS.

Nor Envy base, nor creeping Gain, Dare the Muse's walk to stain, 10 While bright-eyed Science watches round: Hence, away! 'tis holy ground.'

II.

From yonder realms of empyrean day Bursts on my ear the indignant lay; There sit the sainted sage, the bard divine, The few whom Genius gave to shine Through every unborn age and undiscover'd clime. Rapt in celestial transport they, Yet hither oft a glance from high They send of tender sympathy, 20 To bless the place where on their opening soul First the genuine ardour stole. 'Twas Milton struck the deep-toned shell, And, as the choral warblings round him swell, Meek Newton's self bends from his state sublime, And nods his hoary head, and listens to the rhyme.

III.

Ye brown o'er-arching groves! That Contemplation loves, Where willowy Camus lingers with delight; Oft at the blush of dawn 30 I trod your level lawn, Oft wooed the gleam of Cynthia, silver-bright, In cloisters dim, far from the haunts of Folly, With Freedom by my side, and soft-eyed Melancholy.

IV.

But hark! the portals sound, and pacing forth, With solemn steps and slow, High potentates, and dames of royal birth, And mitred fathers, in long orders go: Great Edward,[2] with the Lilies on his brow From haughty Gallia torn, 40 And sad Chatillon,[3] on her bridal morn, That wept her bleeding love, and princely Clare,[4] And Anjou's heroine,[5] and the paler Rose,[6] The rival of her crown, and of her woes, And either Henry[7] there, The murder'd saint, and the majestic lord That broke the bonds of Rome,— (Their tears, their little triumphs o'er, Their human passions now no more, Save Charity, that glows beyond the tomb,) 50 All that on Granta's fruitful plain Rich streams of regal bounty pour'd, And bade those awful fanes and turrets rise, To hail their Fitzroy's festal morning come; And thus they speak in soft accord The liquid language of the skies:

V.

'What is grandeur, what is power? Heavier toil, superior pain, What the bright reward we gain? The grateful memory of the good. 60 Sweet is the breath of vernal shower, The bee's collected treasures sweet, Sweet Music's melting fall, but sweeter yet The still small voice of Gratitude.'

VI.

Foremost, and leaning from her golden cloud, The venerable Margaret[8] see! 'Welcome, my noble son!' she cries aloud, 'To this thy kindred train, and me: Pleased, in thy lineaments we trace A Tudor's[9] fire, a Beaufort's grace. 70 Thy liberal heart, thy judging eye, The flower unheeded shall descry, And bid it round Heaven's altars shed The fragrance of its blushing head; Shall raise from earth the latent gem To glitter on the diadem.

VII.

'Lo! Granta waits to lead her blooming band; Not obvious, not obtrusive, she No vulgar praise, no venal incense flings; Nor dares with courtly tongue refined 80 Profane thy inborn royalty of mind: She reveres herself and thee. With modest pride, to grace thy youthful brow, The laureate wreath[10] that Cecil wore she brings, And to thy just, thy gentle hand Submits the fasces of her sway; While spirits blest above, and men below, Join with glad voice the loud symphonious lay.

VIII.

'Through the wild waves, as they roar, With watchful eye, and dauntless mien, 90 Thy steady course of honour keep, Nor fear the rock, nor seek the shore: The Star of Brunswick smiles serene, And gilds the horrors of the deep.'

[Footnote 1: 'Music:' performed in the Senate-house, Cambridge, July 1, 1769, at the installation of his Grace, Augustus Henry Fitzroy, Duke of Grafton, Chancellor of the University.]

[Footnote 2: 'Great Edward.' Edward III., who added the Fleur-de-lis of France to the arms of England. He founded Trinity College.]

[Footnote 3: 'Chatillon:' Mary de Valentia, Countess of Pembroke, daughter of Guy de Chatillon, Comte de St Paul, in France, who lost her husband on the day of his marriage. She was the foundress of Pembroke College or Hall, under the name of Aula Marias de Valentia.]

[Footnote 4; 'Clare:' Elizabeth de Burg, Countess of Clare, was wife of John de Burg, son and heir of the Earl of Ulster, and daughter of Gilbert de Clare, Earl of Gloucester, by Joan of Acres, daughter of Edward I.; hence the poet gives her the epithet of 'princely.' She founded Clare Hall.]

[Footnote 5: 'Anjou's heroine:' Margaret of Anjou, wife of Henry VI., foundress of Queen's College.]

[Footnote 6: 'Rose:' Elizabeth Widville, wife of Henry IV. She added to the foundation of Margaret of Anjou.]

[Footnote 7: 'Either Henry:' Henry VI. and Henry VII., the former the founder of King's, the latter the greatest benefactor to Trinity College.]

[Footnote 8: 'Margaret:' Countess of Richmond and Derby, the mother of Henry VII., foundress of St John's and Christ's Colleges.]

[Footnote 9: 'Tudor:' the Countess was a Beaufort, and married to a Tudor; hence the application of this line to the Duke of Grafton, who claimed descent from both these families.]

[Footnote 10: 'Wreath:' Lord Treasurer Burleigh was Chancellor of the University in the reign of Queen Elizabeth.]

* * * * *

MISCELLANEOUS.

A LONG STORY.

ADVERTISEMENT.—Gray's 'Elegy,' previous to its publication, was handed about in MS., and had, amongst other admirers, the Lady Cobham, who resided in the mansion-house at Stoke-Pogeis. The performance inducing her to wish for the author's acquaintance, Lady Schaub and Miss Speed, then at her house, undertook to introduce her to it. These two ladies waited upon the author at his aunt's solitary habitation, where he at that time resided, and not finding him at home, they left a card behind them. Mr Gray, surprised at such a compliment, returned the visit; and as the beginning of this intercourse bore some appearance of romance, he gave the humorous and lively account of it which the 'Long Story' contains.

1 In Britain's isle, no matter where, An ancient pile of building[1] stands: The Huntingdons and Hattons there Employ'd the power of fairy hands,

2 To raise the ceiling's fretted height, Each pannel in achievements clothing, Rich windows that exclude the light, And passages that lead to nothing.

3 Full oft within the spacious walls, When he had fifty winters o'er him, My grave Lord-Keeper[2] led the brawls: The seal and maces danced before him.

4 His bushy beard and shoe-strings green, His high-crown'd hat and satin doublet, Moved the stout heart of England's Queen, Though Pope and Spaniard could not trouble it.

5 What, in the very first beginning, Shame of the versifying tribe! Your history whither are you spinning? Can you do nothing but describe?

6 A house there is (and that's enough) From whence one fatal morning issues A brace of warriors, not in buff, But rustling in their silks and tissues.

7 The first came cap-a-pie from France, Her conquering destiny fulfilling, Whom meaner beauties eye askance, And vainly ape her art of killing.

8 The other Amazon kind Heaven Had arm'd with spirit, wit, and satire; But Cobham had the polish given, And tipp'd her arrows with good nature.

9 To celebrate her eyes, her air— Coarse panegyrics would but tease her; Melissa is her nom de guerre; Alas! who would not wish to please her!

10 With bonnet blue and capuchine, And aprons long, they hid their armour; And veil'd their weapons, bright and keen, In pity to the country farmer.

11 Fame, in the shape of Mr P—t, (By this time all the parish know it), Had told that thereabouts there lurk'd A wicked imp they call a Poet,

12 Who prowl'd the country far and near, Bewitch'd the children of the peasants, Dried up the cows, and lamed the deer, And suck'd the eggs, and kill'd the pheasants.

13 My Lady heard their joint petition, Swore by her coronet and ermine, She'd issue out her high commission To rid the manor of such vermin.

14 The heroines undertook the task; Through lanes unknown, o'er stiles they ventured, Rapp'd at the door, nor stay'd to ask, But bounce into the parlour enter'd.

15 The trembling family they daunt; They flirt, they sing, they laugh, they tattle, Rummage his mother, pinch his aunt, And up-stairs in a whirlwind rattle.

16 Each hole and cupboard they explore, Each creek and cranny of his chamber, Run hurry-scurry round the floor, And o'er the bed and tester clamber;

17 Into the drawers and china pry, Papers and books, a huge imbroglio! Under a tea-cup he might lie, Or creased like dog's-ears in a folio!

18 On the first marching of the troops, The Muses, hopeless of his pardon, Convey'd him underneath their hoops To a small closet in the garden.

19 So Rumour says; (who will believe?) But that they left the door a-jar, Where safe, and laughing in his sleeve, He heard the distant din of war.

20 Short was his joy: he little knew The power of magic was no fable; Out of the window, whisk! they flew, But left a spell upon the table.

21 The words too eager to unriddle, The Poet felt a strange disorder; Transparent birdlime form'd the middle, And chains invisible the border.

22 So cunning was the apparatus, The powerful pothooks did so move him, That will-he, nill-he, to the great house He went as if the devil drove him.

23 Yet on his way (no sign of grace, For folks in fear are apt to pray) To Phoebus he preferr'd his case, And begg'd his aid that dreadful day.

24 The godhead would have back'd his quarrel: But with a blush, on recollection, Own'd that his quiver and his laurel 'Gainst four such eyes were no protection.

25 The court was set, the culprit there; Forth from their gloomy mansions creeping, The Lady Janes and Joans repair, And from the gallery stand peeping:

26 Such as in silence of the night Come sweep along some winding entry, (Styack[3] has often seen the sight) Or at the chapel-door stand sentry;

27 In peaked hoods and mantles tarnish'd, Sour visages enough to scare ye, High dames of honour once that garnish'd The drawing-room of fierce Queen Mary!

28 The peeress comes: the audience stare, And doff their hats with due submission; She curtsies, as she takes her chair, To all the people of condition.

29 The Bard with many an artless fib Had in imagination fenced him, Disproved the arguments of Squib,[4] And all that Grooms[5] could urge against him.

30 But soon his rhetoric forsook him, When he the solemn hall had seen; A sudden fit of ague shook him; He stood as mute as poor Maclean.[6]

31 Yet something he was heard to mutter, How in the park, beneath an old tree, (Without design to hurt the butter, Or any malice to the poultry,)

32 He once or twice had penn'd a sonnet, Yet hoped that he might save his bacon; Numbers would give their oaths upon it, He ne'er was for a conjuror taken.

33 The ghostly prudes, with hagged[7] face, Already had condemn'd the sinner: My Lady rose, and with a grace— She smiled, and bid him come to dinner,

34 'Jesu-Maria! Madam Bridget, Why, what can the Viscountess mean?' Cried the square hoods, in woeful fidget; 'The times are alter'd quite and clean!

35 'Decorum's turn'd to mere civility! Her air and all her manners show it: Commend me to her affability! Speak to a commoner and poet!'

[Here 500 stanzas are lost.]

36 And so God save our noble king, And guard us from long-winded lubbers, That to eternity would sing, And keep my lady from her rubbers.

[Footnote 1: 'Pile of building:' the mansion-house at Stoke-Pogeis, then in the possession of Viscountess Cobham. The style of building which we now call Queen Elizabeth's, is here admirably described, both with regard to its beauties and defects; and the third and fourth stanzas delineate the fantastic manners of her time with equal truth and humour. The house formerly belonged to the Earls of Huntingdon and the family of Hatton.]

[Footnote 2: 'Lord-Keeper:' Sir Christopher Hatton, promoted by Queen Elizabeth for his graceful person and fine dancing. Brawls were a sort of a figure-dance then in vogue.]

[Footnote 3: 'Styack:' the house-keeper.]

[Footnote 4: 'Squib:' the steward.']

[Footnote 5: 'Grooms:' of the chamber.]

[Footnote 6: 'Maclean:' a famous highwayman, hanged the week before.]

[Footnote 7: 'Hagged:' i. e., the face of a witch or hag.]

* * * * *

ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD.

1 The curfew tolls 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.

2 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:

3 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.

4 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.

5 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.

6 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.

7 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!

8 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.

9 The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Await alike the inevitable hour: The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

10 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.

11 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?

12 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.

13 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.

14 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.

15 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.

16 The 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,

17 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,

18 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.

19 Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,[1] Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray; Along the cool sequester'd vale of life They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

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

21 Their name, their years, spelt by the 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.

22 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?

23 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.

24 For thee, who, mindful of the unhonour'd dead, Dost in those lines their artless tale relate, If chance, by lonely Contemplation led, Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,

25 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.

26 'There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech, That wreathes its old fantastic root so high, His listless length at noontide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

27 'Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Muttering his wayward fancies, he would rove; Now drooping, woeful, wan, like one forlorn, Or crazed with care, or cross'd in hopeless love.

28 'One morn I miss'd him on the accustom'd hill, Along the heath, and near his favourite tree; Another came, nor yet beside the rill, Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood, was he:

29 'The next, with dirges due, in sad array, Slow through the churchway-path we saw him borne: Approach, and read (for thou canst read) the lay Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn:'[2]

THE EPITAPH.

30 Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth, A youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown: Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth, And Melancholy mark'd him for her own.

31 Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere; Heaven did a recompense as largely send: He gave to misery all he had—a tear; He gain'd from Heaven—'twas all he wish'd—a friend.

32 No further 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.

[Footnote 1: This part of the elegy differs from the first copy. The following stanza was excluded with the other alterations:—

Hark! how the sacred calm, that breathes around, Bids every fierce tumultuous passion cease, In still small accents whispering from the ground A grateful earnest of eternal peace. ]

[Footnote 2: In early editions, the following stanza occurred:—

There scatter'd oft, the earliest of the year, By hands unseen, are showers of violets found; The redbreast loves to build and warble there, And little footsteps lightly print the ground. ]

* * * * *

EPITAPH ON MRS JANE CLARKE.[1]

Lo! where this silent marble weeps, A friend, a wife, a mother sleeps; A heart, within whose sacred cell The peaceful Virtues loved to dwell: Affection warm, and faith sincere, And soft humanity were there. In agony, in death resign'd, She felt the wound she left behind. Her infant image here below Sits smiling on a father's woe: Whom what awaits while yet he strays Along the lonely vale of days? A pang, to secret sorrow dear, A sigh, an unavailing tear, Till time shall every grief remove With life, with memory, and with love.

[Footnote 1: 'Mrs Jane Clarke' this lady, the wife of Dr Clarke, physician at Epsom, died April 27, 1757, and is buried in the church of Beckenham, Kent.]

* * * * *

STANZAS,

SUGGESTED BY A VIEW OF THE SEAT AND RUINS AT KINGSGATE, IN KENT, 1766.

1 Old, and abandon'd by each venal friend, Here Holland took the pious resolution, To smuggle a few years, and strive to mend A broken character and constitution.

2 On this congenial spot he fix'd his choice; Earl Goodwin trembled for his neighbouring sand; Here sea-gulls scream, and cormorants rejoice, And mariners, though shipwreck'd, fear to land.

3 Here reign the blustering North, and blasting East, No tree is heard to whisper, bird to sing; Yet Nature could not furnish out the feast, Art he invokes new terrors still to bring.

4 Now mouldering fanes and battlements arise, Turrets and arches nodding to their fall, Unpeopled monasteries delude our eyes, And mimic desolation covers all.

5 'Ah!' said the sighing peer, 'had Bute been true, Nor C—'s, nor B—d's promises been vain, Far other scenes than this had graced our view, And realised the horrors which we feign.

6 'Purged by the sword, and purified by fire, Then had we seen proud London's hated walls: Owls should have hooted in St Peter's choir, And foxes stunk and litter'd in St Paul's.'

* * * * *

TRANSLATION FROM STATIUS.

Third in the labours of the disc came on, With sturdy step and slow, Hippomedon; Artful and strong he poised the well-known weight, By Phlegyas warn'd, and fired by Mnestheus' fate, That to avoid and this to emulate. His vigorous arm he tried before he flung, Braced all his nerves, and every sinew strung, Then with a tempest's whirl and wary eye Pursued his cast, and hurl'd the orb on high; The orb on high, tenacious of its course, 10 True to the mighty arm that gave it force, Far overleaps all bound, and joys to see Its ancient lord secure of victory: The theatre's green height and woody wall Tremble ere it precipitates its fall; The ponderous mass sinks in the cleaving ground, While vales and woods and echoing hills rebound. As when, from Aetna's smoking summit broke, The eyeless Cyclops heaved the craggy rock, Where Ocean frets beneath the dashing oar, 20 And parting surges round the vessel roar; 'Twas there he aim'd the meditated harm, And scarce Ulysses 'scaped his giant arm. A tiger's pride the victor bore away, With native spots and artful labour gay, A shining border round the margin roll'd, And calm'd the terrors of his claws in gold.

CAMBRIDGE, May 8, 1736.

* * * * *

GRAY ON HIMSELF.

Too poor for a bribe, and too proud to importune, He had not the method of making a fortune; Could love and could hate, so was thought something odd; No very great wit, he believed in a God; A post or a pension he did not desire, But left church and state to Charles Townshend and Squire.

* * * * *

END OF GRAY'S POEMS.

* * * * *



THE POETICAL WORKS

OF

TOBIAS SMOLLETT.

THE

LIFE OF TOBIAS SMOLLETT.

The combination of a great writer and a small poet, in one and the same person, is not uncommon. With not a few, while other, and severer branches of study are the laborious task of the day, poetry is the slipshod amusement of the evening. Dr Parr calls Johnson probabilis poeta—words which seem to convey the notion that the author of "The Rambler," who was great on other fields, was in that of poetry only respectable. This term is more applicable to Smollett, whose poems discover only in part those keen, vigorous, and original powers which enabled him to indite "Roderick Random" and "Humphrey Clinker." Yet the author of "Independence," and "The Tears of Scotland," must not be excluded from the list of British poets—an honour to which much even of his prose has richly entitled him.

The incidents in Smollett's history are not very numerous, and some of them are narrated, under faint disguises, with inimitable vivacity and vraisemblance in his own fictions. Tobias George Smollett was born in Dalquhurn House, near the village of Renton, Dumbartonshire, in 1721. His father, a younger son of Sir James Smollett of Bonhill, having died early, the education of the poet devolved on his grandfather. The scenery of his native place was well calculated to inspire his early genius. It is one of the most beautiful regions in Scotland. A fine hollow vale, pervaded by the river Leven, and surrounded by rich woodlands and bold hills, stretches up from Dumbarton, with its double peaks and ancient castle, to the magnificent Loch Lomond; and in one of the loops of this winding vale was the great novelist born and bred. He called his native region, in "Humphrey Clinker," the "Arcadia of Scotland," and has sung the Leven in one of his small poems. He was sent to the Grammar School of Dumbarton, and thence to Glasgow College. He was subsequently placed apprentice to one M. Gordon, a medical practitioner in Glasgow; and from thence, according to some of his biographers, he proceeded to study medicine in Edinburgh. When he was about nineteen years of age, his grandfather expired, without having made any provision for him; and he was compelled, in 1739, to repair to London, carrying with him a tragedy entitled "The Regicide,"—the subject being the assassination of James the First of Scotland,—which he had written the year before, and which he in vain sought to get presented at the theatres. He had letters of introduction to some eminent literary characters, who, however, either could not or would not do anything for him; and he found no better situation than that of surgeon's mate in an eighty-gun ship. He continued in the navy for six or seven years, and was present at the disastrous siege of Carthagena, in 1741, which he has described in a Compendium of Voyages he compiled in 1756, and with still more vigour in "Roderick Random." His long acquaintance with the sea furnished ample materials for his genius, although it did not improve his opinion of human nature. Disgusted with the service, he quitted it in the West Indies, and lived for some time in Jamaica. Here he became acquainted with Miss Lascelles, a beautiful lady whom he afterwards married. She sat for the portrait of Narcissa, in "Roderick Random."

In 1746 he returned to England. He found the country ringing with indignation at the cruelties inflicted by Cumberland on the Highland rebels, and he caught and crystalised the prevalent emotion in his spirited lyric, "The Tears of Scotland." He published the same year his "Advice,"—a satirical poem upon things in general, and the public men of the day in particular. He wrote also an opera entitled "Alceste" for Covent Garden; but owing to a dispute with the manager, it was neither acted nor printed. In 1747 he produced "Reproof," the second part of "Advice,"—a poem which breathes the same manly indignation at the abuses, evils, and public charlatans of the day. This year also he married Miss Lascelles, by whom he expected a fortune of three thousand pounds. This sum, however, was never fully realised; and his generous housekeeping, and the expenses of a litigation to which he was compelled, in connection with Miss Lascelles' money, embarrassed his circumstances, and, much to the advantage of the world, drove him to literature. In 1748, he gave to the world his novel of "Roderick Random,"—counted by many the masterpiece of his genius. It brought him in both fame and emolument. In 1749 he published, by subscription, his unfortunate tragedy, "The Regicide." In 1750 he went to Paris, and shortly after wrote his "Adventures of Peregrine Pickle," including the memoirs of the notorious Lady Vane—the substance of which he got from herself, and which added greatly to the popularity of the work. Notwithstanding the success he met with as a novelist, he was anxious to prosecute his original profession of medicine; and having procured from a foreign university the degree of M.D., he commenced to practise physic in Chelsea, but without success. He wrote, however, an essay "On the External Use of Water," in which he seems to have partly anticipated the method of the cold-water cure. In 1753 he published his "Adventures of Count Fathom;" and, two years later, encouraged by a liberal subscription, he issued a translation of "Don Quixote," in two quarto volumes. While this work was printing, he went down to Scotland, visited his old scenes and old companions, and was received everywhere with enthusiasm. The most striking incident, however, in this journey was his interview with his mother, then residing in Scotston, near Peebles. He was introduced to her as a stranger gentleman from the West Indies; and, in order to retain his incognita, he endeavoured to maintain a serious and frowning countenance. While his mother, however, continued to regard him steadfastly, he could not forbear smiling; and she instantly sprang from her seat, threw her arms round his neck, and cried out, "Ah, my son, I have found you at last! Your old roguish smile has betrayed you."