Chapter 3

Hark, his hands the lyre explore! Bright-eyed Fancy hovering o'er Scatters from her pictur'd urn Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn. 110 But ah! 'tis heard no more---- Oh! lyre divine, what daring spirit Wakes thee now? Tho' he inherit Nor the pride, nor ample pinion, That the Theban eagle bear, 115 Sailing with supreme dominion Thro' the azure deep of air, Yet oft before his infant eyes would run Such forms as glitter in the Muse's ray With orient hues, unborrow'd of the sun: 120 Yet shall he mount, and keep his distant way Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate, Beneath the Good how far--but far above the Great.

THE BARD. _A Pindaric Ode_.

I. 1.

"Ruin seize thee, ruthless King! Confusion on thy banners wait; Tho' fann'd by Conquest's crimson wing, They mock the air with idle state. Helm, nor hauberk's twisted mail, 5 Nor e'en thy virtues, Tyrant, shall avail To save thy secret soul from nightly fears, From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears!" Such were the sounds that o'er the crested pride Of the first Edward scatter'd wild dismay, 10 As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side He wound with toilsome march his long array. Stout Gloster stood aghast in speechless trance: "To arms!" cried Mortimer, and couch'd his quivering lance.

I. 2.

On a rock whose haughty brow 15 Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood, Rob'd in the sable garb of woe, With haggard eyes the poet stood (Loose his beard, and hoary hair Stream'd, like a meteor, to the troubled air), 20 And with a master's hand, and prophet's fire, Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre. "Hark, how each giant oak, and desert cave, Sighs to the torrent's awful voice beneath! O'er thee, O 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.

I. 3.

"Cold is Cadwallo's tongue, That hush'd the stormy main; 30 Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed; Mountains, ye mourn in vain Modred, whose magic song Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topt head. On dreary Arvon's shore they lie, 35 Smear'd with gore, and ghastly pale: Far, far aloof th' 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 Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart, Ye died amidst your dying country's cries-- No more I weep. They do not sleep. On yonder cliffs, a grisly band, I see them sit, they linger yet, 45 Avengers of their native land: With me in dreadful harmony they join, And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line.

II. 1.

"Weave the warp, and weave the woof, The winding-sheet of Edward's race. 50 Give ample room, and verge enough The characters of hell to trace. Mark the year, and mark the night, When Severn shall reëcho with affright The shrieks of death thro' Berkeley's roofs that ring, 55 Shrieks of an agonizing king! She-wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs, That tear'st the bowels of thy mangled mate, From thee be born, who o'er thy country hangs The scourge of heaven. What terrors round him wait! 60 Amazement in his van, with Flight combin'd, And Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude behind.

II. 2.

"Mighty victor, mighty lord! Low on his funeral couch he lies! No pitying heart, no eye, afford 65 A tear to grace his obsequies. Is the sable warrior fled? Thy son is gone. He rests among the dead. The swarm that in thy noontide beam were born? Gone to salute the rising morn. 70 Fair laughs the morn, and soft the zephyr blows, While proudly riding o'er the azure realm In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes; Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm; Regardless of the sweeping whirlwind's sway, 75 That, hush'd in grim repose, expects his evening prey.

II. 3.

"Fill high the sparkling bowl, The rich repast prepare; Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast: Close by the regal chair 80 Fell Thirst and Famine scowl A baleful smile upon their baffled guest. Heard ye the din of battle bray, Lance to lance, and horse to horse? Long years of havoc urge their destined course, 85 And thro' the kindred squadrons mow their way. Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murther fed, Revere his consort's faith, his father's fame, And spare the meek usurper's holy head. 90 Above, below, the rose of snow, Twin'd with her blushing foe, we spread: The bristled boar in infant gore Wallows beneath the thorny shade. Now, brothers, bending o'er the accursed loom, 95 Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom.

III. 1.

"Edward, lo! to sudden fate (Weave we the woof. The thread is spun.) Half of thy heart we consecrate. (The web is wove. The work is done.) 100 Stay, oh stay! nor thus forlorn Leave me unbless'd, unpitied, here to mourn: In yon bright track, that fires the western skies, They melt, they vanish from my eyes. But oh! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height 105 Descending slow their glittering skirts unroll? Visions of glory, spare my aching sight! Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul! No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail. All hail, ye genuine kings, Britannia's issue, hail! 110

III. 2.

"Girt with many a baron bold Sublime their starry fronts they rear; And gorgeous dames, and statesmen old In bearded majesty, appear. In the midst a form divine! 115 Her eye proclaims her of the Briton line; Her lion-port, her awe-commanding face, Attemper'd sweet to virgin-grace. What strings symphonious tremble in the air, What strains of vocal transport round her play! 120 Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear; They breathe a soul to animate thy clay. Bright Rapture calls, and soaring as she sings, Waves in the eye of heaven her many-colour'd wings.

III. 3.

"The verse adorn again 125 Fierce War, and faithful Love, And Truth severe, by fairy Fiction drest. In buskin'd measures move Pale Grief, and pleasing Pain, With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast. 130 A voice, as of the cherub-choir, Gales from blooming Eden bear; And distant warblings lessen on my ear, That lost in long futurity expire. Fond impious man, think'st thou yon sanguine cloud, 135 Rais'd by thy breath, has quench'd the orb of day? To-morrow he repairs the golden flood, And warms the nations with redoubled ray. Enough for me; with joy I see The different doom our fates assign. 140 Be thine despair, and sceptred care; To triumph, and to die, are mine." He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's height Deep in the roaring tide he plung'd to endless night.

HYMN TO ADVERSITY.

[Greek: Zêna---- Ton phronein brotous hodô- santa, tôi pathei mathan Thenta kuriôs echein.] ÆSCHYLUS, _Agam_.

Daughter of Jove, relentless power, Thou tamer of the human breast, Whose iron scourge and torturing hour The bad affright, afflict the best! Bound in thy adamantine chain, 5 The proud are taught to taste of pain, And purple tyrants vainly groan With pangs unfelt before, unpitied and alone.

When first thy sire to send on earth Virtue, his darling child, design'd, 10 To thee he gave the heavenly birth, And bade to form her infant mind. Stern rugged nurse! thy rigid lore With patience many a year she bore: What sorrow was, thou bad'st her know, 15 And from her own she learn'd to melt at others' woe.

Scar'd at thy frown terrific, fly Self-pleasing Folly's idle brood, Wild Laughter, Noise, and thoughtless Joy, And leave us leisure to be good. 20 Light they disperse, and with them go The summer friend, the flattering foe; By vain Prosperity receiv'd, To her they vow their truth, and are again believ'd.

Wisdom in sable garb array'd, 25 Immersed in rapturous thought profound, And Melancholy, silent maid, With leaden eye that loves the ground, Still on thy solemn steps attend; Warm Charity, the general friend, 30 With Justice, to herself severe, And Pity, dropping soft the sadly-pleasing tear.

Oh! gently on thy suppliant's head, Dread goddess, lay thy chastening hand! Not in thy Gorgon terrors clad, 35 Not circled with the vengeful band (As by the impious thou art seen), With thundering voice and threatening mien, With screaming Horror's funeral cry, Despair, and fell Disease, and ghastly Poverty: 40

Thy form benign, O goddess, wear, Thy milder influence impart; Thy philosophic train be there To soften, not to wound, my heart. The generous spark extinct revive, 45 Teach me to love and to forgive, Exact my own defects to scan, What others are to feel, and know myself a Man.

NOTES.

LIST OF ABBREVIATIONS.

A. S., Anglo-Saxon.

Arc., Milton's _Arcades_.

C. T., Chaucer's _Canterbury Tales_.

Cf. (_confer_), compare.

D. V., Goldsmith's _Deserted Village_.

Ep., Epistle, Epode.

Foll., following.

F. Q., Spenser's _Faërie Queene_.

H., Haven's _Rhetoric_ (Harper's edition).

Hales, _Longer English Poems_, edited by Rev. J. W. Hales (London, 1872).

Il Pens., Milton's _Il Penseroso_.

L'All., Milton's _L'Allegro_.

Ol., Pindar's _Olympian Odes_.

P. L., Milton's _Paradise Lost_.

P. R., Milton's _Paradise Regained_.

S. A., Milton's _Samson Agonistes_.

Shakes. Gr., Abbott's _Shakespearian Grammar_ (the references are to _sections_, not pages).

Shep. Kal., Spenser's _Shepherd's Kalendar_.

st., stanza.

Wb., Webster's Dictionary (last revised quarto edition).

Worc., Worcester's Dictionary (quarto edition).

Other abbreviations (names of books in the Bible, plays of Shakespeare, works of Ovid, Virgil, and Horace, etc.) need no explanation.

NOTES.

ELEGY IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD.

This poem was begun in the year 1742, but was not finished until 1750, when Gray sent it to Walpole with a letter (dated June 12, 1750) in which he says: "I have been here at Stoke a few days (where I shall continue good part of the summer), and having put an end to a thing, whose beginning you have seen long ago, I immediately send it you. You will, I hope, look upon it in the light of a thing with an end to it: a merit that most of my writings have wanted, and are like to want." It was shown in manuscript to some of the author's friends, and was published in 1751 only because it was about to be printed surreptitiously.

February 11, 1751, Gray wrote to Walpole that the proprietors of "the Magazine of Magazines" were about to publish his _Elegy_, and added, "I have but one bad way left to escape the honour they would inflict upon me; and therefore am obliged to desire you would make Dodsley print it immediately (which may be done in less than a week's time) from your copy, but without my name, in what form is most convenient for him, but on his best paper and character; he must correct the press himself,[1] and print it without any interval between the stanzas, because the sense is in some places continued beyond them; and the title must be--'Elegy, written in a Country Churchyard.' If he would add a line or two to say it came into his hands by accident, I should like it better." Walpole did as requested, and wrote an advertisement to the effect that accident alone brought the poem before the public, although an apology was unnecessary to any but the author. On which Gray wrote, "I thank you for your advertisement, which saves my honour."

[Footnote 1: Dodsley's proof-reading must have been somewhat careless, for there are many errors of the press in this _editio princeps_. Gray writes to Walpole, under date of "Ash-Wednesday, Cambridge, 1751," as follows: "Nurse Dodsley has given it a pinch or two in the cradle, that (I doubt) it will bear the marks of as long as it lives. But no matter: we have ourselves suffered under her hands before now; and besides, it will only look the more careless and by _accident_ as it were." Again, March 3, 1751, he writes: "I do not expect any more editions; as I have appeared in more magazines than one. The chief errata were _sacred_ for _secret_; _hidden_ for _kindred_ (in spite of dukes and classics); and '_frowning_ as in scorn' for _smiling_. I humbly propose, for the benefit of Mr. Dodsley and his matrons, that take _awake_ [in line 92, which at first read "awake and faithful to her wonted fires"] for a verb, that they should read _asleep_, and all will be right." Other errors were, "Their _harrow_ oft the stubborn glebe," "And read their _destiny_ in a nation's eyes," "With uncouth rhymes and shapeless _culture_ decked," "Slow through the churchway _pass_," and many of minor importance.]

A writer in _Notes and Queries_, June 12, 1875, states that the poem first appeared in the _London Magazine_, March, 1751, p. 134, and that "the Magazine of Magazines" is "a gentle term of scorn used by Gray to indicate" that periodical, and not the name of any actual magazine. But in the next number of _Notes and Queries_ (June 19, 1875) Mr. F. Locker informs us that he has in his possession a title-page of the _Grand Magazine of Magazines_, and the page of the number for April, 1751, which contains the _Elegy_. The magazine is said to be "collected and digested by Roger Woodville, Esq.," and "published by Cooper at the Globe, in Pater Noster Row."

Gray says nothing in his letters of the appearance of the _Elegy_ in the _London Magazine_. The full title of that periodical was "The London Magazine: or Gentleman's Monthly Intelligencer." The editor's name was not given; the publisher was "R. Baldwin, jun. at the Rose in Pater-Noster Row." The volume for 1751 was the 20th, and the Preface (written at the close of the year) begins thus: "As the two most formidable Enemies we have ever had, are now extinct, we have great Reason to conclude, that it is only the Merit, and real Usefulness of our COLLECTION, that hath supported its Sale and Reputation for Twenty Years." A foot-note informs us that the "Enemies" are the "_Magazine of Magazines_ and _Grand Magazine of Magazines_;" from which it would appear that there were two periodicals of similar name published in London in 1751.[2]

[Footnote 2: May not the _Elegy_ have been printed in both of these? We do not know how otherwise to reconcile the conflicting statements concerning the "Magazine of Magazines," as Gray calls it. In the first place, Gray appears (from other portions of his letter to Walpole) to be familiar with this magazine, and would not be likely to confound it with another of similar name. Then, as we have seen, he writes _early in March_ to Walpole that the poem has been printed "in more magazines than one." This cannot refer to the _Grand Magazine of Magazines_, if, as Mr. Locker states, it was the _April_ number of that periodical in which the poem appeared. Nor can it refer to the _London Magazine_, as it is clear from internal evidence that the March number, containing the _Elegy_, was not issued until early in April. It contains a summary of current news down to Sunday, March 31, and the price of stocks in the London market for March 30. The _February_ number, in its "monthly catalogue" of new books, records the publication of the _Elegy_ by Dodsley thus: "An Elegy wrote in a Church-yard, pr. 6d. Dodsley."

If, then, the _Elegy_ did not appear in either the _London Magazine_ or the _Grand Magazine of Magazines_ until more than a month (in the case of the latter, perhaps two months) after Dodsley had issued it, in what magazine was it that it _did_ appear just before he issued it? The _N. A. Review_ says that "it was a close race between the Magazine and Dodsley; but the former, having a little the start, came out a few days ahead." If so, it must have been the _March_ number; or the _February_ one, if it was published, like the _London_, at the end of the month. Gray calls it "the Magazine of Magazines," and we shall take his word for it until we have reason for doubting it. What else was included in his "more magazines than one" we cannot even guess.

We have not been able to find the _Magazine of Magazines_ or the _Grand Magazine of Magazines_ in the libraries, and know nothing about either "of our own knowledge." The _London Magazine_ is in the Harvard College Library, and the statements concerning that we can personally vouch for.]

The author's name is not given with the _Elegy_ as printed in the _London Magazine_. The poem is sandwiched between an "Epilogue to _Alfred, a Masque_" and some coarse rhymes entitled "Strip-Me-Naked, or Royal Gin for ever." There is not even a printer's "rule" or "dash" to separate the title of the latter from the last line of the _Elegy_. The poem is more correctly printed than in Dodsley's authorized edition; though, queerly enough, it has "winds" in the second line and the parenthesis "(all he had)" in the Epitaph. Of Dodsley's misprints noted above it has only "Their _harrow_ oft" and "shapeless _culture_." These four errors, indeed, are the only ones worth noting, except "Or _wake_ to extasy the living lyre."

The "Magazine of Magazines" (as the writer in the _North American Review_ tells us) printed the _Elegy_ with the author's name. The authorized though anonymous edition was thus briefly noticed by _The Monthly Review_, the critical Rhadamanthus of the day: "_An Elegy in a Country Churchyard_. 4to. Dodsley's. Seven pages.--The excellence of this little piece amply compensates for its want of quantity."

"Soon after its publication," says Mason, "I remember, sitting with Mr. Gray in his College apartment, he expressed to me his surprise at the rapidity of its sale. I replied:

'Sunt lacrymae rerum, et mentem mortalia tangunt.'

He paused awhile, and taking his pen, wrote the line on a printed copy of it lying on his table. 'This,' said he, 'shall be its future motto.' 'Pity,' cried I, 'that Dr. Young's Night Thoughts have preoccupied it.' 'So,' replied he, 'indeed it is.'" Gray himself tells the story of its success on the margin of the manuscript copy of the _Elegy_ preserved at Cambridge among his papers, and reproduced in _fac-simile_ in Mathias's elegant edition of the poet. The following is a careful transcript of the memorandum:

"publish'd in Feb:^{ry}, 1751. by Dodsley: & went thro' four Editions; in two months; and af- terwards a fifth 6^{th} 7^{th} & 8^{th} 9^{th} & 10^{th} & 11^{th} printed also in 1753 with M^r Bentley's Designs, of w^{ch} there is a 2^d Edition & again by Dodsley in his Miscellany, Vol: 4^{th} & in a Scotch Collection call'd _the Union_. translated into Latin by Chr: Anstey Esq, & the Rev^d M^r Roberts, & publish'd in 1762; & again in the same year by Rob: Lloyd, M: A:"

"One peculiar and remarkable tribute to the merit of the _Elegy_," says Professor Henry Reed, "is to be noticed in the great number of translations which have been made of it into various languages, both of ancient and modern Europe. It is the same kind of tribute which has been rendered to _Robinson Crusoe_ and to _The Pilgrim's Progress_, and is proof of the same universality of interest, transcending the limits of language and of race. To no poem in the English language has the same kind of homage been paid so abundantly. Of what other poem is there a polyglot edition? Italy and England have competed with their polyglot editions of the _Elegy_: Torri's, bearing the title, 'Elegia di Tomaso Gray sopra un Cimitero di Campagna, tradotta dall' Inglese in più lingue: Verona, 1817; Livorno, 1843;' and Van Voorst's London edition." Professor Reed adds a list of the translations (which, however, is incomplete), including one in Hebrew, seven in Greek, twelve in Latin, thirteen in Italian, fifteen in French, six in German, and one in Portuguese.

"Had Gray written nothing but his _Elegy_," remarks Byron, "high as he stands, I am not sure that he would not stand higher; it is the cornerstone of his glory."

The tribute paid the poem by General Wolfe is familiar to all, but we cannot refrain from quoting Lord Mahon's beautiful account of it in his _History of England_. On the night of September 13th, 1759, the night before the battle on the Plains of Abraham, Wolfe was descending the St. Lawrence with a part of his troops. The historian says: "Swiftly, but silently, did the boats fall down with the tide, unobserved by the enemy's sentinels at their posts along the shore. Of the soldiers on board, how eagerly must every heart have throbbed at the coming conflict! how intently must every eye have contemplated the dark outline, as it lay pencilled upon the midnight sky, and as every moment it grew closer and clearer, of the hostile heights! Not a word was spoken--not a sound heard beyond the rippling of the stream. Wolfe alone--thus tradition has told us--repeated in a low tone to the other officers in his boat those beautiful stanzas with which a country churchyard inspired the muse of Gray. One noble line,

'The paths of glory lead but to the grave,'

must have seemed at such a moment fraught with mournful meaning. At the close of the recitation Wolfe added, 'Now, gentlemen, I would rather be the author of that poem than take Quebec.'"