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The first that there did greet my stranger soul
Was my great father-in-law, renowned Warwick,
Who cried aloud,-" What scourge for perjury
Can this dark monarchy afford false Clarence?"
And so he vanish'd: Then came wandering by
A shadow like an angel, with bright hair
Dabbled in blood; and he shrieked out aloud,—
"Clarence is come, false, fleeting, perjured Clarence,
That stabb'd me in the field by Tewksbury;-
Seize on him, furies, take him to your torments !"
With that, methought, a legion of foul fiends
Environ'd me, and howled in mine ears
Such hideous cries, that, with the very noise,
I trembling waked, and, for a season after,
Could not believe but that I was in hell,
Such terrible impression made my dream.
Brak. No marvel, lord, though it affrighted you;
I am afraid, methinks, to hear you tell it.

Clar. O Brakenbury! I have done these things,
That now give evidence against my soul,—
For Edward's sake; and see how he requites me!
O God! if my deep prayers cannot appease Thee,
But Thou wilt be avenged on my misdeeds,
Yet execute Thy wrath on me alone:

Oh, spare my guiltless wife and my poor children!
I pray thee, gentle keeper, stay by me;

My soul is heavy, and I fain would sleep.

Brak. I will, my lord; God give your grace good rest.

[Clar. retires.
Sorrow breaks seasons and reposing hours,—
Makes the night morning, and the noontide night.
Princes have but their titles for their glories,
An outward honour for an inward toil;
And, for unfelt imaginations,

They often feel a world of restless cares :
So that between their titles and low name,
There's nothing differs but the outward fame.

SHAKESPEARE.

Clarence.-Brother of Edward IV., and of Richard, Duke of Gloster, afterwards Richard III., was murdered in 1478. The common tradition was that he was drowned in a butt of wine.

Tower. The Tower of London, noted for the many deeds of violence done in it during the Plantagenet and Tudor periods of English history.

Gloster.-Richard, brother of Edward IV., afterwards Richard III.

The wars of York and Lancaster.-The Wars of the Roses. Grim ferryman.-Charon, who ferried the spirits of the dead over the River Styx.

Warwick.-Known as the "King-maker."

Tewksbury.-In Gloucestershire, on the Upper Avon, ten miles from Gloucester, where, on 4th May, 1471, the Lancastrians were utterly defeated by Edward IV. Edward's sake.-Edward IV., brother to Clarence.

ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY
CHURCHYARD.

[THOMAS GRAY, born 26th December, 1716, became Professor of Modern History at Cambridge in 1768. His life was uneventful. He died 30th July, 1771.]

1. THE curfew tolls the knell of parting day,

The lowing herds wind slowly o'er the lea, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

2. Now fades the glimm'ring landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;

3. Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower,
The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of such, as wand'ring near her secret bow'r,
Molest her ancient solitary reign,

4. Beneath those rugged elms, that yew tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap,

Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

5. The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn,

The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,

No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

6. For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or busy housewife ply her ev'ning care: No children run to lisp their sire's return,

Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

7. Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke: How jocund did they drive their team afield!

How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

8. 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.

9. The boast of Heraldry, the pomp of Pow'r,
And all that Beauty, all that Wealth e'er gave,
Await alike th' inevitable hour,

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

10. Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, If mem'ry o'er their tombs no trophies raise, Where through the long drawn aisle, and fretted vault,

The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

11. Can storied urn, or animated bust,

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?

Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust,
Or Flatt'ry soothe the dull cold ear of Death?

12. Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid

Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;
Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd,
Or wak'd to ecstasy the living lyre.

13. But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page,
Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll;
Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the soul.

14. Full many a gem of purest ray serene

The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear;
Full many a flow'r is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

15. 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.

16. Th' applause of list'ning senates to command,
The threat of pain and ruin to despise,
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,
And read their hist'ry in a nation's eyes,

17. Their lot forbade: nor circumscrib'd alone

Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd;
Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind;

18. 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.

19. Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife
Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray;

Along the cool sequester'd vale of life

They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

20. Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect Some frail memorial still erected nigh,

With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd

Implores the pleasing tribute of a sigh.

21. Their names, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd Muse,

The place of fame and elegy supply;

And many a holy text around she strews,
That teach the rustic moralist to die.

22. For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,

This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd,
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
Nor cast one longing, ling'ring look behind?

23. On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
Some pious drops the closing eye requires:
Ev'n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,
Ev'n in our ashes live their wonted fires.

24. For thee, who, mindful of the unhonour'd dead, Dost in these lines their artless tale relate; If chance, by lonely Contemplation led,

Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,

25. Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,

"Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn, Brushing with hasty steps the dew away,

To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.

26. "There at the foot of yonder nodding beech, That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, His listless length at noontide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

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