He won a fellowship in the university but took no degree. Instead he accepted the invitation of his friend Horace Walpole to travel, and together they spent two years on the Continent. When he returned to England Gray took up his residence in Cambridge, and here, except for short intervals of travel and vacation-visits, he spent his life. Three years before his death he was elected Professor of Modern History in the university; but he delivered no lectures, and it is said that the only function he performed in connection with his professorship was to draw his salary. He died in Cambridge in July, 1771, and was buried at Stoke Pogis in the little churchyard which his Elegy has immortalized. By nature Gray was a recluse. His time he spent largely in study, and these studies included music, painting, botany, heraldry, and the literature of various countries. He was a pioneer in the study of the Norse, and by his enthusiasm brought the language and mythology to the favorable notice of England. His admiration for craggy mountain scenery, and his feeling for Gothic grandeur, were innovations in his day. By his praises of these types of beauty he foreshadowed the dawn of that Romanticism which came into full light in the generation which succeeded. But Gray's spirit of poetic workmanship remained largely classic. He was an æsthete who took great pains in bringing his verse to a highly finished excellence. His writing of the Elegy extended over a period of seven years. The studied leisure of his verse composition accounts for the limited quantity — about fourteen hundred lines only. It is significant, however, that practically all of it has survived. And while the total output is scant, it is of further significance that his influence has tended to exalt and ennoble poetic taste and refinement. But with all this acquired taste, he retained enough of the spirit of democracy to reveal in his great Elegy that trait of sympathy and understanding for simple life and simple longing that distinguishes great and masterly compositions. LYRICS BY GRAY ODE ON THE PLEASURE ARISING FROM Now the golden Morn aloft Waves her dew-bespangled wing, With vermeil cheek and whisper soft She woos the tardy Spring: Till April starts, and calls around 5 The sleeping fragrance from the ground, Scatters his freshest, tenderest green. New-born flocks, in rustic dance, The birds his presence greet: 10 But chief, the sky-lark warbles high His trembling thrilling ecstasy; And lessening from the dazzled sight, 15 Yesterday the sullen year Saw the snowy whirlwind fly; Smiles on past misfortune's brow While hope prolongs our happier hour, And blacken round our weary way, Still, where rosy pleasure leads, See the wretch that long has tost 35 40 The meanest floweret of the vale, 45 The simplest note that swells the gale, The common sun, the air, the skies, To him are opening Paradise. ON A FAVOURITE CAT, DROWNED IN A TUB OF GOLD FISHES "T WAS on a lofty vase's side, Where China's gayest art had dyed The azure flowers that blow, Demurest of the tabby kind The pensive Selima, reclined, 5 Her conscious tail her joy declared: The fair round face, the snowy beard, Her coat that with the tortoise vies, 10 Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes She saw, and purr'd applause. Still had she gazed, but 'midst the tide The Genii of the stream: Their scaly armour's Tyrian hue The hapless Nymph with wonder saw: She stretch'd, in vain, to reach the prize – Presumptuous maid! with looks intent Eight times emerging from the flood No Dolphin came, no Nereid stirr'd, A favourite has no friend! From hence, ye Beauties! undeceived Not all that tempts your wandering eyes 66 THE BARD I. 1. Strophe "RUIN seize thee, ruthless King! Confusion on thy banners wait; Tho' fann'd by Conquest' s crimson wing 15 20 25 30 335 40 Helm, nor hauberk's twisted mail, Nor e'en thy virtues, Tyrant, shall avail 5 Such were the sounds that o'er the crested pride Of the first Edward scatter'd wild dismay, As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side 10 He wound with toilsome march his long array: Stout Glo'ster stood aghast in speechless trance; "To arms!" cried Mortimer, and couch'd his quivering lance. I. 2. Antistrophe On a rock, whose haughty brow Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood, 15 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 20 "Hark, how each giant-oak and desert-cave Sighs to the torrent's awful voice beneath! O'er thee, oh King! their hundred arms they wave, 25 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. Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topt head. 35 Smear'd with gore and ghastly pale: Far, far aloof the affrighted ravens sail; The famish'd eagle screams, and passes by. Dear lost companions of my tuneful art, Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes, 40 |