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 thoughtless1 world to majesty may bow,
Exalt the brave, and idolize success;
But more to innocence their safety owe,
Than power or genius e'er conspired to bless.]
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Await alike the inevitable hour:-

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Nor you, ye proud! impute to these2 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 storied3 urn or animated bust

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
Can honour's voice provoke the silent dust,
Or flattery 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 swayed,
Or waked to ecstacy the living lyre:

But knowledge to their eyes her ample page,

Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unrol;

1 The thoughtless, &c.-This and the other stanzas enclosed in brackets are taken from the early editions, or from the MS. left by Gray. They are much too beautiful to be either lost or banished, and the present editor has therefore ventured to find a place for them.

2 Impute to these, &c.-i. e. do not suppose that these poor men do not deserve "trophies" as well as you.

3 Storied--embossed with figures, or bearing an inscription relating to the story or history of the deceased.

Provoke-from the Latin provoco, I challenge or call forth; here, call back again to life.

Rich with, &c.-containing the riches which time, like a conqueror, has gathered together. A noble expression!

1

Chill penury repressed their noble rage,1
And froze the genial current of the soul.

Full many a gem of purest ray serene2

The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear:
Full many a flower3 is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless breast,
The little tyrant of his fields withstood,
Some mute inglorious Milton, here may rest,
Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood.

The applause of listening senates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
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,
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,
Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride

With incense kindled at the muse's flame.

Rage-ardour, enthusiasm. This use of the word was once common. Thus Pope :

2

"So just thy skill, so regular my rage."

Purest ray serene-" purest" and "serene" seem to be nearly identical in meaning, and it is not easy to see the propriety of the latter word unless it be taken as an adverb to qualify, "bear." The meaning would then be that the ocean kept these pearls serenely, (i. e. quietly,) so that no one knew anything about them.

3

Many a flower, &c.-Every word here seems the choicest possible, and the conception, so beautiful in itself, thus appears invested with a double charm. 4 Read their history, &c.-Remarkable for the fulness of meaning condensed into a few words.

in

5 The struggling pangs, &c.-It has been justly observed that this stanza rather weakens than increases the interest excited by the last, and comes laggingly after that sonorous couplet, "Forbade to wade, &c.," which certainly ought to have closed the passage. The sense is-Their lot forbade their learning those arts by which men rise, as it is called, in the world, and which involve the abandonment of truth and industry, as well as the mean flattery of the great.

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife-
Their sober wishes never learned to stray;
Along the cool sequestered vale of life

They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

[Hark! how the sacred calm that breathes around
Bids every fierce tumultuous passion cease;
In still small accents whispering from the ground,
A grateful earnest of eternal peace.]

Yet even these bones from insult to protect,
Some frail memorial still3 erected nigh,

With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deckt,
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

Their name, their years, spelt by the unlettered muse,
The place of fame and elegy supply:
And many a holy text around she strews,
That teach the rustic moralist to die.

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,

This pleasing anxious being e'er resigned,
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
Nor cast one longing lingering look behind?
On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
Some pious drops the closing eye requires;
Even from the tomb the voice of nature cries,
Even in our ashes6 live their wonted fires.

Far from, &c.-i. e. living far from the influence of the "ignoble strife," their wishes never strayed towards it. The "far from" has no grammatical connection with "stray."

2 Yet even, &c.--The direct train of thought, which has been long interrupted, is here resumed, from the stanza beginning, "Nor you, ye proud," and may be thus connected:-Though these poor people have no monuments in cathedrals, yet even they love to have some memorial, however frail, raised near their bones, to bespeak the sympathy of passers by.

3 Still-always, continually; as if put for, "you will constantly find." A somewhat rare use of the word, if this be indeed its meaning here, which is not certain. 4 For, &c.-This stanza is connected with the last but one; the last being in parenthesis.

5 Pious drops-affectionate tears; taken in the sense of the Latin pius, dutiful to relations.

6 Even in our ashes, &c.-even in the grave, that desire for affectionate sympathy which we evinced when alive, is expressed by the "frail memorial still erected nigh." Chaucer writes:

"Yet in our ashen cold is fire y-reken." (smoking.)

For thee,1 who, mindful of the unhonoured dead,
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;
If chance, by lonely contemplation led,

Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,
Haply some hoary-headed swain may say—
"Oft have we seen him, at the peep of dawn,
Brushing with hasty steps the dews away,
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.
"There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech,
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,
His listless length at noon-tide would he stretch,
And pore upon the brook that babbles by.
["Him have we seen the greenwood side along,
While o'er the heath we hied, our labour done,
Oft as the woodlark piped her farewell song,
With wistful eyes pursue the setting sun.]
"Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,
Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove;
Now drooping woful wan, like one forlorn,

Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love.
"One morn I missed him on the accustomed hill,
Along the heath, and near his favourite 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.

["There scattered3 oft, the earliest of the year,
By hands unseen, are showers of violets found;

For thee, &c.-i. e. as to thee. The remainder of the poem refers to the character and circumstances of the author, who, by reflecting on the condition and fate of others, is naturally reminded of his own.

2 Him have we seen, &c.-This stanza, the "Doric delicacy" of which is praised by Mason, completes the poet's day, by supplying the evening. It is taken from Gray's first MS.

3 There scattered, &c.-This exquisite stanza was printed in the earlier editions, but afterwards omitted by the author, "because he thought it was too long a parenthesis in this place." The judgment is perhaps just, but it is re-admitted here, notwithstanding, for the reason given in Note 1, p. 62.

F

The redbreast loves to build and warble there,
And little footsteps lightly print the ground."]

THE EPITAPH.

Here rests his head upon the lap of earth
A youth, to fortune and to fame unknown :
Fair science frowned not on his humble birth,
And melancholy marked him for her own.

Large was his bounty,2 and his soul sincere ;3
Heaven did a recompense as largely send :
He gave to misery all he had, a tear;

He gained from Heaven ('twas all he wished) a friend.4

No further 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.

Gray.

TO A WATER-FOWL.

WHITHER, midst falling dew,6

While glow the heavens with the last steps of day,
Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue
Thy solitary way?

Vainly the fowler's eye

Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,

1 Fair science, &c.-i. e. though he loved science, yet he was melancholy: an affirmation which has little force. The "and" seems to be put for "but." 2 Bounty--The word usually refers to actual generosity, but here it seems to mean generosity of heart.

3 Sincere-open, and capable of friendship.

4 Friend-probably the poet refers to his friend, Mason.

5 There in their "dread abode," the bosom, i. e. the mercy of God, to which he refers both his merits and his frailties.

These notes may properly conclude with Dr. Johnson's judgment on this poem, that it "abounds with images which find a mirror in every mind, and with sentiments to which every bosom returns an echo." See "Life of Gray." 6 Falling dew-This marks the time; for the bird being high in the air, was not, of course, in the midst of " falling dew."