War's deadly crimfon had forfook the place,
And Freedom fondly lov'd the chosen seat.
No wild ambition fir'd their tranquil breast,
To fwell with empty founds a fpotless name;
If foft'ring fkies, the fun, the fhow'r were bleft,
Their bounty fpread, their fields' extent the fame.
Thofe fields, profufe of raiment, food, and fire,
They scorn'd to leffen, careless to extend;
Bade Luxury to lavish courts afpire,
And Avarice to city breafts defcend.
None to a virgin's mind preferr'd her dow'r,
To fire with vicious hopes a modeft heir:
The fire, in place of titles, wealth, or pow'r
Affign'd him virtue, and his lot was fair.
They spoke of Fortune as fome doubtful dame,
That fway'd the natives of a diftant sphere;
From Lucre's vagrant fons had learn'd her fame,
But never wifh'd to place her banners here.
Here youth's free fpirit, innocently gay,
Enjoy'd the moft that Innocence can give;
Thofe wholefome fweets that border Virtue's way;
Thofe cooling fruits, that we may tafte and live.
Their board no ftrange ambiguous viand bore;
From their own streams their choicer fare they drew;
To lure the fcaly glutton to the shore
The fole deceit their artlefs bofom knew!
Sincere themselves, ah! too fecure to find
The common bofom, like their own, fincere!
'Tis its own guilt alarms the jealous mind;
'Tis her own poifon bids the viper fear.
Sketch'd on the lattice of th' adjacent fane
Their fuppliant bufts implore the reader's pray'r
Shenstone, Ah! Gentle fouls! enjoy your blissful reign,
And let frail mortals claim your guardian care.
For fure! to blisful realms the fouls are flown
That never flatter'd, injur'd, cenfur'd, ftrove;
The friends of fcience! mufic all their own;
Mufic, the voice of Virtue and of Love!
The journeying peafant, thro' the fecret fhade
Heard their foft lyres engage his lift'ning ear.
And haply deem'd fome courteous angel play'd;
No angel play'd — but might with transport hear.
For these the founds that chafe unholy ftrife!
Solve Envy's charm, Ambition's wretch release
Raife him to fpurn the radiant ills of life,
To pity pomp, to be content with peace.
Farewell, pure fpirits! vain the praise we give,
The praise you fought from lips angelic flows;
Farewell! the virtues which deferve to live
Deferve an ampler bliss than life bestows.
Laft of his race, Palemon, now no more,
The modeft merit of his line display'd;
The pious Hough Vigornia's mitte wore -
Soft fleep the duft of each deferving fhade,
Nur durch einige wenige, aber in ihrer Art sehr meis fterhafte Gedichte erwarb sich Thomas Gray bei seiner Nation sehr großen Ruhm, ein Mann von vielem Geschmack und mannichfaltigen feinen Kenntnissen, geb. 1716; geft. 1771. Von ihm gilt, was Quintilian vom Perfius sagt: Multum et verae gloriae, quamvis uno libro, meruit. Schon diese eins jige, mit Recht so allgemein bewunderte, so häufig überfeste, aber nie ganz erreichte, Elegie auf einen Dorfkirchhof wurde immer ein äußerst rühmliches Denkmal seines dichtes rischen Talents, seines edeln und tiefen Gefühls bleiben. Selbst Dr. Johnson, dessen Urtheil über diesen Dichter ges wiß zu strenge und mit zu vieler kritischen Kälte abgefaßt ist, fühlte sich doch durch diese Elegie zu sehr erwärmt, that seiz ner Strenge nun Einhalt, und gestand, daß sie reich an Bils dern sey, die einen Spiegel in jeder Seele finden, und an Gedanken und Empfindungen, die jede Bruft wiederhallt.
AN ELEGY, WRITTEN IN A COUN.
TRY-CHURCH-YARD.
The curfew tolls the knell of parting day
The lowing herd wind flowly 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 fight,
And all the air a folemn ftillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight
And drowsy tinklings lull the diftant folds;
Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower,
The mopeying owl does to the moon complain
Of fuch as, wand'ring near her fecret bower,
Moleft her ancient folitary reign.
Beneath thofe rugged elms, that yew-tree's fhade,
Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap.
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
The rude Forefathers of the hamlet fleep.
The breezy call of incenfe-breathing Morn
The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed
The cock's fhrill clarion, or the echoing horn
No more fhall roufe them from their lowly bed.
For them no more the blazing hearth fhall burn,
Or bufy housewife ply her evening care:
No children run to lifp their fire's return
Or climb his knees the envied kifs to fhare.
Oft did the harvest to their fickle 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 ftroke!
Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obfcure,
Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile
The short and fimple annals of the poor.
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Await alike th' 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 raife,
Where thro' the long-drawn isle and fretted vault
The pealing Anthem fwells the note of praise.
Can ftoried Urn or animated Buft
Back to its manfion call the fleeting breath?
Can Honour's voice provoke the filent duft,
Or Flatt'ry footh the dull cold ear of Death?
Perhaps in this neglected fpot is laid
Some heart once pregnant with celeftial fire;
Hands, that the rod of empire might have fway'd,
Or wak'd to extafy the living lyre.
But knowledge to their eyes her ample page,
Rich with the fpoils of Time, did ne'er unroll;
Chill Penury reprefs'd their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the foul.
Full many a gem of pureft ray ferene,
The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear:
Full many a flower is born to bluth unfeen,
And waste its sweetness on the defert air,
Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breaft
The little Tyrant of his fields withstood;
Some mute inglorious Milton here may reft,
Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood.
Th' applause of lift'ning fenates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to despife,
To scatter plenty o'er a fmiling land,
And read their hift'ry in a nations eyes,
Their lot forbad: nor circumfcrib'd alone
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd;
Forbad to wade through flaughter to a throne,
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind,
The ftruggling pangs of confcious truth to hide
To quench the blushes of ingenuous fhame,
Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride
With incenfe kindled at the Mufe's flame.
Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,
Their fober wishes never learn'd to stray;
Along the cool fequefter'd vale of life
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.
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