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  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,

  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:’

  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.

  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-à-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.

  ODE FOR MUSIC.

  PERFORMED AT THE INSTALLATION OF THE CHANCELLOR OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CAMBRIDGE, 1769.

  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, with the Lilies on his brow

  From haughty Gallia
torn, 40

  And sad Chatillon, on her bridal morn,

  That wept her bleeding love, and princely Clare,

  And Anjou’s heroine, and the paler Rose,

  The rival of her crown, and of her woes,

  And either Henry 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 see!

  ‘Welcome, my noble son!’ she cries aloud,

  ‘To this thy kindred train, and me:

  Pleased, in thy lineaments we trace

  A Tudor’s 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;