No impious footstep here shall tread
The herbage of your grave;
Nor shall your glory be forgot
While Fame her record keeps,
Or Honor points the hallowed spot
Where Valor proudly sleeps.

Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone
In deathless song shall tell,

When many a vanished year hath flown,
The story how ye fell.

Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight,
Nor Time's remorseless doom,

Can dim one ray of holy light

That gilds your glorious tomb.

ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD.

THOMAS GRAY.

THOMAS GRAY was born in London in 1716. His father neglected his family, and the boy was dependent upon his mother, who worked hard to provide her son with an education. Through the influence of an uncle, who was an assistant at 5 Eton, the future poet was educated at that famous school, and at Cambridge. He spent his vacations

at his uncle's house. He cared nothing for the sports of the times, but loved nature. He would sit for hours in a quiet nook, surrounded by hills and cliffs, reading, dreaming, and watching the gambols of the hares and squirrels.

Gray was twenty-two years old when he left Cambridge. He spent the following six months at home, and then accepted the invitation of one of his college friends to accompany him, free of expense, on a tour through France and Italy. His notes and letters written during this 20 trip show remarkable taste and learning.

After two and a half years of travel he returned to England. His father died during the next fall, after wasting his fortune. Gray began the study of law, but had not the means to finish the course. He began to devote his time to writing, left London, 25 where he had spent the winter, and went with his mother to visit an uncle who lived in a country hamlet called Stoke Poges. In this quiet village he wrote his "Ode on the Spring," "Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton College," and began the "Elegy Written in a Country Church-Yard."

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The "Elegy" is one of the most celebrated poems ever written. It was begun when Gray was twenty-six years old, but he did not

finish it until eight years later. Its fame spread over the world, and it still holds its rank as the most perfect of English poems. The poet lived at Cambridge, where he devoted his time to study. The "Elegy" and a later work, "The Bard,” placed him at the head of English poets. He was offered the office of poet 5 laureate, which he refused.

In 1768 Gray accepted the chair of Modern History and Languages at Cambridge.

The last years of the poet's life were spent very quietly. He avoided society and was rarely seen in public. He died in 10 London in 1771.

THE Curfew tolls the knell of parting day,

The lowing herd wind 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 droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r

The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such, as wand'ring near her secret bow'r, Molest her ancient solitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,
Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap,
Each in his narrow cell forever laid,

The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

CHURCH AT STOKE POGES.

The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn,

The swallow twitt'ring 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:
No 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 team afield!

How bow'd 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 pow'r,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Awaits alike th' inevitable hour.

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Nor you, ye Proud, impute to These the fault,
If Mem'ry o'er their Tomb no Trophies raise,
Where thro' 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 Flatt'ry 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 sway'd, Or wak'd to ecstasy the living lyre.

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.

Full many a gem of purest ray serene,

The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear: