which he had succeeded, and from the concern of which he was anxious to relieve himself, was finally surmounted by means of his own knowledge of law. The local poems by which Gray has impressed a classical stamp upon Stoke are, The Elegy written in a Country Churchyard, The Long Story, both written in 1750, and his Ode to Eton College, written before, in the year 1742; in which year were also written the Ode to Spring, the Hymn to Adversity, and the Sonnet on the death of Mr. West, (the first certainly, and the two last probably,) at Stoke. It was in the year 1780 that (Miss Speed, now) Countess de Viry enabled the lover of poetry to see in print the Rondeau, and another small amatory poem of Gray, called Thyrsis, by presenting them to the Rev. Mr. Leman, of Suffolk, while on a visit at her castle in Savoy. She died there in 1783. Now the golden morn aloft Waves her dew-bespangled wing, New-born flocks, in rustic dance, But chief, the sky-lark warbles high Rise, my soul! on wings of fire, Rise the rapturous choir among; Hark! 'tis nature strikes the lyre, And leads the general song: "Warm let the lyric transport flow, "Warm as the ray that bids it glow; "And animates the vernal grove "With health, with harmony, and love." Yesterday the sullen year Saw the snowy whirlwind fly; Smiles on past misfortune's brow Soft reflection's hand can trace; Still, where rosy pleasure leads, The hues of bliss more brightly glow, See the wretch, that long has toss'd Humble quiet builds her cell, Near the source whence pleasure flows; She eyes the clear crystalline well, And tastes it as it goes. 'While' far below the 'madding' crowd Rush headlong to the dangerous flood,' Where broad and turbulent it sweeps, 'And' perish in the boundless deeps. Mark where indolence, and pride, To these, if Hebe's self should bring The purest cup from pleasure's spring, Say, can they taste the flavour high Of sober, simple, genuine joy? Mark ambition's march sublime Phantoms of danger, death, and dread, 'Happier he, the peasant, far, From the pangs of passion free, That breathes the keen yet wholesome air He, when his morning task is done, 'He, unconscious whence the bliss, From toil he wins his spirits light, In heaven's best treasures, peace and health.' 1 |