“ Sweet is the breath of vernal show'r,
" The bee's collected treasure sweet,
“ Sweet Music's melting fall, but sweeter yet
“ The still small voice of gratitude."

VI. Foremost and leaning from her golden cloud, The venerable Marg'ret* see! " Welcome, my noble son!” she cries aloud, To this thy kindred train and me: Pleas'd in thy lineaments we trace « A l'udor's fire, a Beaufort's grace. * Thy lib'ral heart, thy judging eye, “ The flow'r unheeded shall descry, "And bid it round heaven's altars shed “ The fragrance of its blushing head; “ Shall raise from earth the latent gem To glitter on the diadem.

VII. “ Lo! Granta waits to lead her blooming band; " Nor obvious, nor obtrusive, she " No vulgar praise, no venal incense flings, “ Nor dares with courtly tongue refin'd Profane thy inborn royalty of mind: " She reveres herself and thee, “ With modest pride to grace thy youthful brow “ The laureate wreath that Cecilt wore she brings, And to thy just thy gentle hand “ Submits the fasces of her sway; " While spirits blest above and men below, “ Join with glad voice the loud symphonious lay.

• Countess of Richmond and Derby, the mother of Henry VII. foundress of St. John's and Christ's colleges.

The Countess was a Beaufort, and married to a Tudor ; hence the application of this line to the Duke of Grafton, who claims descent from both these families.

+ Lord Treasurer Burleigh was Chancellor of the University in the Reign of Queen Elizabeth.

" Thro' the wild waves, as they roar,
“ With watchful eye, and dauntless mien,
“ Thy steady course of honour keep,
" Nor fear the rocks nor seek the shore :
“ The star of Brunswick smiles serene,
“And gilds the horrors of the deep."




The pers

MR. GRAY's Elegy, previous to its publication, was handed about

in MS, and had, amongst other admirers, the Lady Cobham,
who resided in the mansion-house at Stoke Pogis.
formance inducing her to wish for the Author's acquaintance,
Lady Schaub and Miss Speed, then at her house, undertook to
iniroduce her to it. These two ladies waited upon the Author
at his aunt's solitary habitation, wohere he at that time resided,
And not finding him at home, they left a card behind them.
alr. Gray, surprised at su h a compliment, returned the visit ;
and as the beginning of this intercours: bore some appearance
of romance, he gave the humourous and lively account of it
which the Long Story contains,

N Britain's isle, no matter where,

An ancient pile of building stands *;
The Huntingdong and Hatlons there
Employ'd the pow'r of Fairy hands.

* The mansion-house at Stoke-Pogis, then in the posses. sion, of Viscountess Cobham. The style of building whicis we now call Queen Elizabeth's, is here admirably described, both with regard to its beauties and defects; and the third and fourth stanzas delineate the fantastic manners of her

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To raise the cieling's fretted height, Each pannel in atchievements clothing, Rich windows that exclude the light, And passages that lead to nothing.

Full oft within the spacious walls,
When he had fifty winters o'er him,
My grave Lord-Keeper* led the brawls:
The seal and maces danc'd before him.

His bushy-beard and shoe-strings green, His high-crown'd hat and satin doublet, Mov'd the stout heart of England's queen, Tho' Pope and Spaniard could not trouble it.

What, in the very first beginning,
Shame of the versifying tribe !
Your hist'ry whither are you spinning?
Can you do nothing but describe?

A house there is (and that's enough)
Trom whence one fatal morning issues
A brace of warriorst, not in buff,
But rustling in their silks and tissues.

The first came cap-a-pee from France,
Fler conqu’ring destiny fulfilling,
Whom meaner beauties eye askance,
And vainly ape her art of killing.

time with equal truth and humour. The house formerly belonged to the Earls of Huntingdon and the fainily of Hatton.

* Sir Christopher Hatton, promoted by Queen Elizabeth or his graceful person and fine dancing. .... Brawls were : sort of a figure-dance then in vogue, and probably deemed as elegant as our modern cotillons, or still more modern quadrilles.

+ The reader is already apprized who these ladies were ; the two descriptions are prettily contrasted ; and nothing can be more happily turned than the compliment to Lady Cobham in the eighth stanza,

The other amazon kind heav'n
Had arm'd with spirit, wit, and satire!
But Cobham had the polish giv'n,
And tipp'd her arrows with good-nature.

To celebrate her eyes, her air ....
Coarse panegyrics would but tease her;
Melissa is her nom du guerre;
Alas! who would not wish to please her:

With bonnet blue and capuchin,
And aprons long, they hid their armour,
And veil'd their weapons, bright and keen,
In pity to the country farmer,

Fame, in the shape of Mr. P....t*,
(By this time all the parish know it)
Had told that thereabouts there lurk'd
A wicked imp they call a Poet.

Who prowl'd the country far and near,
Bewitch'd the children of the peasants,
Dry'd up the cows and lam'd the deer,
And suck'd the eggs and kill'd the pheasanks.

My Lady heard their joint petition,
Swore by her coronet and ermine,
She'd issue out her high commission
To rid the manor of such vermin.

The heroines undertook the task;
Thro' lanes unknown, o'er stiles they ventur'd,
Rapp'd at the door, nor stay'd to ask,
But bounce into the parlour enter'd.

The trembling family they daunt,
They flirt, they sing, they laugh, they tattle,
Rummage his mother, pinch his aunt,
And up stairs in a whirlwind rattle.

* I have been told that this gentleman, a neighbour and acquaintance of Mr. Gray's in the country, was much displeased at the liberty here taken with his name, yet surely without any great reason.

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Each hole and cupboard they explore,
Each creek and cranny of his chamber,
Run hurry scurry round the floor,
And o'er the bed and tester clamber.

Into the drawers and china pry,
Papers and books, a huge imbroglio!
Under a tea-cup he might lie,
Or creas'd like dog's-ears in a folio.

On the first inarching of the troops,
The Muses, hopeless of his pardon,
Convey'd him underneath their hoops,
To a small closet in the garden.

So Rumour says; (who will believe) But that they left the door a-jar, Where safe, and laughing in his sleeve, He heard the distant din of war?

Short was his joy: he little knew
The power of magic was no fable;
Out of the window whisk they flew,
But left a spell upon the table.

The words too eager to unriddle
The Poet felt a strange disorder;
Transparent birdlime form'd the middle,
And chains invisible the border.

So cunning was the apparatus,
The pow'rful pot-hooks did so move him,
That will he nill to the great house
He went as if the devil drove him.

Yet on his way (no sign of grace,
For folks in fear are apt to pray)
To Phebus he preferred his case
And begg'd his aid that dreadful day.

The godhead would have back'd his quarrel;
But with a blush, on recollection,
Own'd that his quiver and his laurel
'Gainst four such eyes were no protection.

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