The first that there did greet my stranger soul 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, Oh, spare my guiltless wife and my poor children! My soul is heavy, and I fain would sleep. Brak. I will, my lord; God give your grace good rest. They often feel a world of restless cares : 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 [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, 3. Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower, 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; 9. The boast of Heraldry, the pomp of Pow'r, 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, 12. Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; 13. But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page, 14. Full many a gem of purest ray serene The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear; 15. Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast 16. Th' applause of list'ning senates to command, 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; 18. The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, 19. Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife 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, 22. For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd, 23. On some fond breast the parting soul relies, 24. For thee, who, mindful of the unhonour'd dead, Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, 25. Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, 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. |