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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.

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

The next, with dirges due in sad array

Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne,— Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.

THE EPITAPH.

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.

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, 't was all he wish'd, a friend.

No farther seek his merits to disclose,

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode (There they alike in trembling hope repose), The bosom of his Father and his God.

THOMAS GRAY.1

1 THOMAS GRAY was born in London, in December, 1716. Through the care of his mother he received a good education, first at Eton and then at Cambridge. After leaving the univerity he travelled on the Continent with Horace Walpole, return

THE BARD.1

PINDARIC ODE.

"RUIN seize thee, ruthless King!
Confusion on thy banners wait!
Tho' fanned by Conquest's crimson wing
They mock the air with idle state.
Helm, nor hauberk's twisted mail,

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Nor e'en 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 scattered wild dismay,
As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side

He wound with toilsome march his long array. Stout Glo'ster stood aghast in speechless trance; "To arms!” cried Mortimer, and couched his quiver. ing lance.

ing in 1741. The following year he settled at Cambridge where, with the exception of occasional visits to London, he passed the remainder of his life. He refused the position of poet-laureate in 1757, and in 1769 was made professor of modern history. He died of an attack of the gout in 1771. He was a ripe scholar and led a retired life of learned leisure, which was most congenial to his modest disposition and studious tastes. He published but few poems, as he was never satisfied with his work, and passed an endless time in polishing everyhing he wrote. The few poems he did publish are all most perfect in execution, and the Elegy is one of the most famous poems in the language. It was of the Elegy that Wolfe remarked, when about to attack the French on the Heights of Abraham, that he would rather have written that poem thar take Quebec.

1 This poem refers to the conquest of Wales by Edward I. and is supposed to be the prophecy of one of the bards or harp rs who figured conspicuously among the Welsh.

On a rock, whose haughty brow
Frowns o'er cold 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.

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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.

"Cold is Cadwallo's tongue,

That hush'd the stormy main:
Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed:
Mountains, ye mourn in vain

Modred, whose magic song

Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topt head.
On dreary Arvon's shore they lie,
Smeared with gore, and ghastly pale:
Far, far aloof th' affrighted ravens sail;
The famished 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 griesly band,

I see them sit, they linger yet,
Avengers of their native land.

With me in dreadful harmony they join,

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And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line.

"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 reëcho with affright

The shrieks of death thro' Berkley's roof that ring,
Shrieks of an agonizing king!1

She-wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs, That tear'st the bowels of thy mangled mate,

From thee 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.

"Mighty victor, mighty lord! 2

Low on his funeral couch he lies!

No pitying heart, no eye, afford

A tear to grace his obsequies.

Is the sable warrior fled? 3

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, 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 ev'ning prey.

1 This stanza refers to Edward II., son of the conqueror of Wales, who was murdered in Berkley Castle at the instigation of his Queen Isabella, referred to below as "she-wolf of France." 2 Edward III., conqueror of France, said to have been neg. ected and deserted in his last moments and after his death.

The Black Prince, son of Edward III., who died at Bordeaux

"Fill high the sparkling bowl, The rich repast prepare;

Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast:1 Close by the regal chair

Fell Thirst and Famine scowl

A baleful smile upon their baffled guest. Heard ye the din of battle bray,

Lance to lance, and horse to horse?

Long years of havoc urge their destined course,
And thro' the kindred squadrons mow their way.a
Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame,
With many a foul and midnight murder fed,
Revere his Consort's faith, his father's fame,

And spare the meek usurper's holy head.
Above, below, the rose of snow,

Twined with her blushing foe, we spread:
The bristled boar in infant gore

Wallows beneath the thorny shade.

Now, brothers, bending o'er the accursed loom, Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his docm.

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Edward, lo! to sudden fate

(Weave we the woof. The thread is spun.)

Half of thy heart we consecrate.

(The web is wove.

The work is done.)

Stay, O stay! nor thus forlorn

Leave me unblessed, unpitied, here to mourn:

1 Richard II., son of the Black Prince, who was forced to abdicate by the Duke of Lancaster, afterwards Henry IV.

2 This passage refers to the long and bloody Wars of the Roses between the rival houses of York and Lancaster.

8 Henry VI., murdered in the Tower and succeeded by Edward IV., of the house of York.

4 The Duke of Gloucester, afterwards Richard III., who is upposed to have murdered, in the Tower of London, his nephews Edward V. and the young Duke of York, sons of Edward IV.

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