YE distant spires, ye antique towers,
That crown the wat'ry glade,
Where grateful Science still adores
Her Henry's holy shade;

And ye, that from the stately brow

Of Windsor's heights th' expanse below

Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey,

Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among Wanders the hoary Thames along

easily be discerned the conscious gaucherie of a scholastic man, exposing itself in its effort at concealment. Gray was never at home when he moved from the contem-. plative indolence of his closet. With the reputation of the most learned man in Europe, he added nothing, to the stores of learning; and with a poetical faculty of a very high order, he suffered some twenty pages to include all his poetry. His hopes of Paradise. have happily expressed his character and temper. "Be.it mine to lie upon a sofa all day long, and read'eternal new romances of Marivaux and Crebillon !" Gray narrowly escaped the fame of the founder of a new "school", in poetry. His "Pindaric Odes" have passages of true inspiration, with snatches of that Gothic style, if it may be so called, which we have seen most eminently successful in our own day. These passages, however, do not redeem the poems, considered as models of the art, from a pedantic coldness into which Gray's indolent sense of the classical proprieties unfortunately betrayed him. His master-pieces accordingly are his humbler efforts: his Ode on Eton College, and his Elegy in the Country Church-yard;which will be read and loved as long as the still sad music of humanity" vibrates

YE distant spires, ye antique towers,
That crown the wat'ry glade,
Where grateful Science still adores
Her Henry's holy shade;

And ye, that from the stately brow

Of Windsor's heights th' expanse below

Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey,

Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among Wanders the hoary Thames along

Ah, happy hills, ah, pleasing shade,

Ah, fields belov'd in vain,

Where once my careless childhood stray'd, A stranger yet to pain!

I feel the gales, that from

A momentary bliss bestow,

ye

blow,

As waving fresh their gladsome wing, My weary soul they seem to soothe, And, redolent of joy and youth,

To breathe a second spring.

Say, father Thames, for thou hast seen
Full many a sprightly race
Disporting on thy margent green
The paths of pleasure trace,
Who foremost now delight to cleave
With pliant arm thy glassy wave?

The captive linnet which enthral ?
What idle progeny succeed
To chase the rolling circle's speed,
Or urge the flying ball?

While some on earnest business bent
Their murmuring labours ply

'Gainst graver hours, that bring constraint To sweeten liberty;

Some bold adventurers disdain

The limits of their little reign,

And unknown regions dare descry:

Still as they run they look behind,
They hear a voice in every wind,
And snatch a fearful joy.

Gay Hope is theirs, by Fancy fed,
Less pleasing, when possest;
The tear forgot as soon as shed,
The sunshine of the breast:
Theirs buxom health, of rosy hue;
Wild wit, invention ever new,

And lively cheer of vigour born;
The thoughtless day, the casy night,
The spirits pure, the slumbers light,

Alas, regardless of their doom,
The little victims play!

No sense have they of ills to come,
Nor care beyond to-day.

Yet see how all around them wait

The ministers of human fate,

And black Misfortune's baleful train, Ah, show them where in ambush stand To seize their prey, the murderous band! Ah, tell them, they are men!

These shall the fury passions tear,
The vultures of the mind,
Disdainful Anger, pallid Fear,

And Shame that skulks behind;
Or pining Love, shall waste their youth,
Or Jealousy, with rankling tooth,

That inly gnaws the secret heart, And Envy wan, and faded Care, Grim-visag'd comfortless Despair, And Sorrow's piercing dart.

Ambition this shall tempt to rise,
Then whirl the wretch from high,
To bitter Scorn a sacrifice,
And grinning Infamy.

The stings of Falsehood those shall try,
And hard Unkindness' alter'd eye,

That mocks the tear it forc'd to flow; And keen Remorse, with blood defil'd, And moody Madness laughing wild Amid severest woe.

Lo, in the vale of years beneath
A grisly troop are seen

The painful family of Death,

More hideous than their queen :

This racks the joints, this fires the veins,
That every labouring sinew strains,
Those in the deeper vitals rage:

Lo, Poverty, to fill the band,
That numbs the soul with icy hand,