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, and sin no more.'

On sounding pinions here the youth withdrew,
The sage stood wandering as the seraph flew ;
Thus looked 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 wished 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 passed a life of piety and peace,

THOMAS GRAY

His

Was born in London on the 26th of December, 1716. father was a money scrivener, and separating from his wife after the birth of their son, the burthen of his maintenance and education fell upon herself, assisted in her exertions by the kindness of a sister. Thus she was enabled to procure for him an entrance, first at Eton, and afterwards at Cambridge. At the former place he became intimate with Horace Walpole, and after the termination of his college education, he was induced to accompany the latter on a tour through France and Italy. His first appearance as a poet was in 1747, in an Ode to Eton College. Two years afterward he wrote his "Elegy in a Country Churchyard," which immediately became popular. Or the death of Colley Cibber he was offered the situation

poet-laureat, but declined; and afterward the appointment of Professor of Modern History, with a salary of £400 per annum, in which situation he died from the effects of an attack of gout in the stomach, on the 30th of July, 177!. As a scholar he was profound, elegant, and well-informed; and possessed, also, a most refined taste in painting, architecture and gardening. His poems are few, but full of nervous and sublime eloquence; but the ene which has immortalized him as a poet, is the perfect gem which we copy.

AN ELEGY,

WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD.

THE curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea,
The plowman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,

Save where the beetle wheels his drony flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;

Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower,
The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of such, as wandering near her secret bower,
Molest her ancient solitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,

Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering

heap,

Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow, twittering from the straw-built shed,

The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,

No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her evening care:
Nor children run to lisp their sire's return,
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield;

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke ; How jocund did they drive their teams afield! How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

Let not ambition mock their useful toil,

Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile
The short and simple annals of the poor.

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.

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,
If memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise,
Where through the long-drawn isle and fretted
vault,

The pealing anthem swells the note of praise

Can storied urn, or animated bust,

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can honor's voice provoke the silent dust,

Or flattery soothe the dull cold ear of death?

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid

Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire: Hands, that the rod of empire might have swayed, Or waked to ecstacy the living lyre.

But knowledge to their eyes her ample page,
Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll;
Chill penury repressed their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the soul

Full many a gem, of purest ray serene,

The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air

Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast The little tyrant of his fields withstood;

Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest;

Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood.

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,

Their lot forbade: nor circumscribed alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined;

Forbabe to wade through slaughter to a throne,
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind;

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.

Far from the maddening crowd's ignoble strife Their sober wishes never learned to stray; Along the cool sequestered vale of life

They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

Yet even these bones from insult to protect,
Some frail memorial still erected nigh,
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture
decked,

Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

Their name, their years, spelt by the unlettered

muse,