Nor yet will every soil with equal stores
Repay the tiller's labor: or attend

His will, obsequious, whether to produce
The olive or the laurel. Different minds
Incline to different objects: one pursues
The vast alone, the wonderful, the wild;
Another sighs for harmony and grace,

And gentlest beauty. Hence, when lightning fires
The arch of heaven, and thunders rock the ground,
When furious whirlwinds rend the bowling air,
And ocean, groaning from his lowest bed,
Heaves his tempestuous billows to the sky;
Amid the mighty uproar, while below
The nations tremble, Shakspeare looks abroad
From some high cliff, superior, and enjoys
The elemental war. But Waller longs,
All on the margin of some flowery stream,
To spread his careless limbs amid the cool
Of plantain shades, and to the listening deer
The tale of slighted vows and love's disdain
Resound soft-warbling all the livelong day:
Consenting zephyr sighs; the weeping rill
Joins in his plaint, melodious; mute the groves;
And hill and dale with all their echoes mourn.
Such and so various are the tastes of men.

CONCLUSION.

O! blest of Heaven, whom not the languid songs Of luxury, the siren! not the bribes

Of sordid wealth, nor all the gaudy spoils

Of pageant honor, can seduce to leave

Those ever-blooming sweets, which, from the store
Of nature, fair imagination culls

To charm th' enliven'd soul! What though not all
Of mortal offspring can attain the heights
Of envied life; though only few possess
Patrician treasures or imperial state;
Yet nature's care, to all her children just,
With richer treasures and an ampler state,
Endows, at large, whatever happy man
Will deign to use them. His the city's pomp,
The rural honors his. Whate'er adorns
The princely dome, the column and the arch,
The breathing marbles and the sculptured gold,
Beyond the proud possessor's narrow claim,
His tuneful breast enjoys. For him, the Spring
Distils her dews, and from the silken gem
Its lucid leaves unfolds: for him, the hand
Of Autumn unges every fertile branch
With blooming gold, and blushes like the morn.
Each passing hour sheds tribute from her wings;
And still new beauties meet his lonely walk,
And loves unfelt attract him. Not a breeze
Flies o'er the meadow, not a cloud imbibes

The setting sun's effulgence, not a strain
From all the tenants of the warbling shade
Ascends, but whence his bosom can partake
Fresh pleasure unreproved. Nor thence partakes
Fresh pleasure only: for th' attentive mind,
By this harmonious action on her powers,
Becomes herself harmonious: wont so oft
In outward things to meditate the charm
Of sacred order, soon she seeks at home
To find a kindred order to exert

Within herself this elegance of love,

This fair inspired delight: her temper'd powers
Refine at length, and every passion wears
A chaster, milder, more attractive mien.
But if to ampler prospects, if to gaze

On nature's form, where, negligent of all
These lesser graces, she assumes the port

Of that eternal majesty that weigh'd

The world's foundations; if to these the mind
Exalts her daring eye; then mightier far

Will be the change, and nobler. Would the forms
Of servile custom cramp her generous powers?
Would sordid policies, the barbarous growth

Of ignorance and rapine, bow her down
To tame pursuits, to indolence and fear?
Lo! she appeals to nature, to the winds

And rolling waves, the sun's unwearied course,
The elements and seasons: all declare

For what th' eternal Maker has ordain'd
The powers of man: we feel within ourselves

His energy divine: he tells the heart,

He meant, he made us to behold and love

What he beholds and loves, the general orb

Of life and being; to be great like him,

Beneficent and active. Thus the men

Whom nature's works can charm, with God himself

Hold converse; grow familiar, day by day,

With his conceptions, act upon his plan;

And form to his the relish of their souls

THOMAS GRAY. 1716-1771.

THIS most eminent poet and distinguished scholar was born in London 1716. After receiving the first portion of his classical education at Eton, he entered the University of Cambridge, where he continued five years; after which he travelled, as companion with Horace Walpole, through France and part of Italy. At Reggio, however, these ill-assorted friends parted in mutual dislike, and Gray proceeded alone to Venice, and there remained only till he was provided with the means of returning to England. As to the cause of the separation, Walpole was afterwards content to bear the blame. "Gray," said he, was too serious a companion for me: he was for antiquities, &c., while I was for perpetual balls and plays; the fault was mine."

Two months after his return to England, his father died in embarrassed circumstances, and Gray returned to Cambridge, where he prosecuted his studies, with an ardor and industry seldom equalled, to the end of his life. In 1742 he produced his "Ode to Spring," and in the autumn of the same year he wrote the "Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton College," and the Hymn to Adversity;" but he did not publish them till some years after. They were circulated among his friends, who were, of course, delighted with them, and they received from their gifted author touches and re-touches, till they were brought to the perfection in which we now have them. So slow was he in poetical composition, that his next ode, "On the Death of a favorite Cat," was not written till 1747. In 1750 appeared his most celebrated poem, the "Elegy written in a Country Churchyard." Few poems were ever so popular. It soon ran through eleven editions, and has ever since been one of those few, favorite pieces that every one has by heart.

In 1757 the office of poet-laureate, made vacant by the death of Cibber, was offered to Gray, but declined. The same year he published his two odes on "The Progress of Poesy," and "The Bard." Though they showed to a still higher degree the power and the genius of the poet, and were felt to be magnificent productions, they were not so popular, because they were less understood. In 1768, the Professorship of History at Cambridge becoming vacant, it was conferred upon our poet, than whom a person of greater and more extensive scholarship could not be found at that time in England. But his habitual indolence in writing unfitted him for the office; for though he retained it till his death, he delivered no lectures. In the spring of 1770 illness overtook him, as he was projecting a tour in Wales; but recovering, he was able to effect the tour in the autumn. But the next year, 1771, on the 24th of July, he was seized with an attack of gout in the stomach, from which, as an hereditary complaint, he had long suffered; and died on the 30th of the same month, in the fifty-fifth year of his age.

The life of Gray is one singularly devoid of interest and variety, even for an author. It is the life of a student giving himself up to learning, account. ing it as an end itself, and "its own exceeding great reward." He devoted his time almost exclusively to reading: writing was with him an exception, and that, too, a rare one. His life was spent in the acquisition of knowledge. At the time of his death, "he was perhaps the most learned man in Europe. He was equally acquainted with the elegant and profound parts of science and that not superficially, but thoroughly. He knew every branch of history, both natural and civil; had read all the original historians of England, France, and Italy; and was a great antiquary. Criticism, metaphysics, morals, politics, made a principal part of his plan of study; voyages and travels of all sorts were his favorite amusement: and he had a fine taste in painting, prints, architecture, and gardening."

As a poet, though we cannot assent to the enthusiastic encomium of his ardent admirer and biographer, Mr. Matthias, 3 that he is "second to none,"

1 He himself prefixed to them a quotation from Pindar, wvAVTA OUVETOLOLY, "vocal to the Intelligent alone."

From a sketch of his life by the Rev. William Temple. "I am sorry," says the excellent Dr. Beattie, in writing to a friend, "you did not see Mr. Gray on his return: you would have been much pleased with him. Setting aside his merit as a poet, which, however, in my opinion, is greater than any of his contemporaries can boast, in this or any other nation, I found him possessed of the most exact taste, the soundest judgment, and most extensive learning."

Works, by T J. Matthias, 2 vols. quarto; the best edition.

yet, after naming Milton, and Shakspeare, and Spenser, and Chaucer, if we were compelled to assign the fifth place to some one, we know not to whom it would be, if not to Thomas Gray. There are in the poems that he has left us, few though they be, such a perfect finish of language, such felicity of ex pression, such richness and harmony of numbers, and such beauty and sublimity of thought and imagination, as to place him decidedly at the head of all English lyric poets. True, Collins comes next, and sometimes approaches him almost within a hair's-breadth: but after all there is distance between them, and that distance is generally clearly perceptible. Of the "Bard" and "The Progress of Poesy," Mr. Matthias justly observes, "There is not another ode in the English language which is constructed like these two compositions; with such power, such majesty, and such sweetness, with such proportioned pauses and just cadences, with such regulated measures of the verse, with such master principles of lyrical art displayed and exemplified, and, at the same time, with such a concealment of the difficulty, which is lost in the softness and uninterrupted flowing of the lines in each stanza, with such a musical magic, that every verse in it in succession dwells on the ear, and harmonizes with that which has gone before."

As a man, he had great benevolence of feeling, the strictest principles of virtue, and the most unbending integrity.' As an instance of the strictness of his principles, he once made it his particular request to a friend who was going to the continent, that he would not pay a visit to Voltaire; and when his friend replied, "What can a visit from a person like me to him signify?" he rejoined, with peculiar earnestness, "Sir, every tribute to such a man signifies." If such sentiments were more generally felt and acted on, men of elevated positions would not so often presume upon their talents, or eloquence, or learning, as being a sufficient covering for their moral deficiencies.

THE PROGRESS OF POESY.

I. 1.

Awake, Æolian lyre, awake,2

And give to rapture all thy trembling strings.
From Helicon's harmonious springs 3

A thousand rills their mazy progress take:
The laughing flowers, that round them blow,
Drink life and fragrance as they flow.

1 "His faculties were endowed with uncommon strength; he thought with a manly nervousness; and he penetrated forcibly into every subject which engaged his attention. But his petty manners were disagreeably effeminate and fastidious; his habits wanted courage and hardiness; and his temper and spirits were a prey to feebleness, indolence, and trivial derangements. His heart was pure; and his conduct, I firmly believe, stained with no crime. He loved virtue for its own sake, and felt a just and never slackened indignation at vice."-Sir Egerton Brydges, "Censura Literaria," viii. 217. Read, also, a well-sustained and most interesting dialogue between Gray and Walpole in the same author's "Imaginative Biography." Read, also, Drake's "Literary Hours," 3 vols.-a most fascinat. ing work.

2 Awake up, my glory; awake, psaltery and harp.—Psalm lvii. 8.

8 The subject and simile, as usual with Pindar, are united. The various sources of poetry, which gives life and lustre to all it touches, are here described; its quiet majestic progress enriching every subject (otherwise dry and barren) with a pomp of diction and luxuriant harmony of numbers; and Its more rapid and irresistible course, when swollen and hurried away by the conflict of tumultuous passions.

Now the rich stream of music winds along,
Deep, majestic, smooth, and strong,

Through verdant vales, and Ceres golden reign:
Now rolling down the steep amain

Headlong, impetuous, see it pour:

The rocks and nodding groves rebellow to the roar.
I. 2.

Oh! Sovereign of the willing soul,'
Parent of sweet and solemn-breathing airs,
Enchanting shell! the sullen Cares

And frantic Passions hear thy soft control.
On Thracia's hills the Lord of War
Has curb'd the fury of his car,

And dropp'd his thirsty lance at thy command.
Perching on the sceptred hand

Of Jove, thy magic lulls the feather'd king
With ruffled plumes and flagging wing:
Quench'd in dark clouds of slumber lie

The terror of his beak, and lightnings of his eye.

I. 3.

Thee the voice, the dance, obey,2

Temper'd to thy warbled lay.

O'er Idalia's velvet green

The rosy-crowned Loves are seen

On Cytherea's day;

With antic Sport, and blue-eyed Pleasures,

Frisking light in frolic measures;

Now pursuing, now retreating,

Now in circling troops they meet:

To brisk notes in cadence beating,

Glance their many-twinkling feet.

Slow melting strains their Queen's approach declare:
Where'er she turns, the Graces homage pay.

With arms sublime, that float upon the air,

In gliding state she wins her easy way:

O'er her warm cheek, and rising bosom, move

The bloom of young Desire and purple light of Love.

II. 1.

Man's feeble race, what ills await,3

Labor, and Penury, the racks of Pain,

Disease, and Sorrow's weeping train,

And Death, sad refuge from the storms of Fate!

The fond complaint, my song, disprove,

And justify the laws of Jove.

Say, has he given in vain the heavenly Muse?
Night, and all her sickly dews,

1 Power of harmony to calm the turbulent sallies of the soul. The thoughts are borrowed from the first Pythian of Pinder.

2 Power of harmony to produce all the graces of motion in the body.

To compensate the real and imaginary ills of life, the Muse was given to mankind by the same Providence that sends the day, by its cheerful presence, to dispel the gloom and terrors of the night.