CHAPTER XII. THOMAS GRAY (1716-1771). "Of all English poets, Gray was the most finished artist. He attained the highest degree of splendor of which poetical style seemed to he capable." —SIR JAMES MACKINTOSH. THOMAS GRAY was born in Cornhill, London, in 1716. His father was a scrivener and exchange-broker, whose unamiable character occasioned his separation from his wife, who seems to have had nothing in common with her brutal husband. Borne down by blighted affections and straitened circumstances, she struggled bravely to bring up respectably her family of eleven children. Το the tender but unflinching devotion of this heroic woman, Thomas Gray owed his liberal education. In 1734 Gray went to Cambridge; but the routine of university life, and its necessary associations, proved extremely uncongenial. With the studies too, at least as there taught, he had no sympathy. Mathematics he had little liking for under any circumstances; but even classical studies, of which he was passionately fond, lost much of their charm when doled out to him in prosy lectures. The life of the mild and melancholy student was a subject of wonder, mingled with ridicule, to the students of Cambridge. At length, in 1756, the irritating annoyances and practical jokes, to which these young men subjected the poet, caused him to seek permanent refuge in Pembroke Hall. A constitutional melancholy, but always lovable rather than misanthropic, as time wore on, settled down darker and darker upon the poet's life. His depression of spirits is only too faithfully indicated in a letter written in 1757. "As to myself," he writes, "I cannot either of my spirits, my situation, my employment, or fertility. The days and nights pass, and I am never the nearer to any thing but that to which we boast at present THOMAS GRAY. are all tending." The "Elegy in a Country Churchyard was given to the world in 1750, and was at once admired and appreciated. At least eight years were spent by Gray in elaborating it. In 1757 the poet-laureate, Cibber, died; and the laurel with its emoluments was offered to Gray, but he declined the proffered honor. In 1768 he was appointed professor of modern history at Cambridge. Although he was a laborious student, and enjoyed the reputation of being one of the most learned men in Europe, yet he was a failure as a college professor. He could only work when instinct and impulse led him, and that was not towards a very effective discharge of the duties of his position. For six years he had been unable to read with one eye, while the other was bewildered with floating spots. He was not to suffer a long sickness. He died suddenly in the college hall, during dinner, July 24, 1771. When we consider his vast learning and unwearied application, the literary treasures which Gray has bequeathed to the world are few in number. Besides the immortal "Elegy," his principal works are, "The Bard," "The Progress of Poesy," "Ode to Eton College," poetical compositions in Latin, and translations from various languages. Had Gray written more, he would have stood higher as an author; but he will be always remembered as a splendid lyric poet, whose productions are marked by dignified language and finished grace. ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. THE Curfew tolls the knell of parting day, Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower, The moping owl does to the moon complain Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Each in his narrow cell forever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 5 10 15 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, 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 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, The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, If memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault The 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? 20 25 30 35 40 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 ecstasy the living lyre. 45 But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page 50 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, 55 Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood. 60 The applause of listening senates to command, 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; Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, And shut the gates of mercy on mankind, The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. 65 70 |