8
UNIVERSITY COURIER.
GRAY'S ELEGY.
THOMAS GRAY was an English poet, born in Cornhill, London, December 26th, 1716, died July 30, 1771, of gout, and was buried at Stoke-Pogis, the place at which this poem was written.
He was educated at Eton and Cambridge, where his expenses were borne by his mother, his father refusing to maintain him. At Eton, Gray formed an intimacy with Richard West, a son of the Lord Chancellor of Ireland, and also with Horace Walpole, with whom, in 173941, he traveled in France and Italy. On the death of Cibber, the laureatship was offered him, which he declined.
His study was not confined to the usual limits of ancient classical philology; he was not only deeply versed in the romance literature of the Middle Ages, in modern French and Italian, but had studied the then almost unknown departments of Scandinavian and Celtic poetry.
The elegy was commenced in the county churchyard of StokePogis, Buckinghamshire, in which town his mother was living. It originally appeared in 1752 (seven years after commencement), and achieved an immediate popularity; four editions being called for within a year. His Elegy is the culmination of his genius, almost every line having fixed itself upon the popular mind. For more than a century this Elegy has kept its place as one of the masterpieces of English verse. It is so compact that in some instances the sense is continued through the stanzas.
"And leaves the world to darkness and to me."
How beautifully appropriate is evening for beginning this Elegy. And in the first stanza, with what exquisite language and beauty does he express these few simple words, "It is evening, the herds are driven through the valley, and the tired plowman is going home." The last line of this stanza :
How finely does it express that his spirits are low, and that he is in deep meditation, and that all but he have retired and are able to forget the troubles of the day; but he who is a miserable being was still to be troubled by the cares and strifes of this world.
"Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds."
Who can, at first sight, believe that these beautiful lines could be reduced to this simple thought: It is dark, and everything is quiet.
"Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower, The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such as wandering near her secret bower, Molest her ancient solitary reign."
The beautiful personification. Think of that hideous noise which an owl makes, being likened unto some higher being, who is complaining to the moon.
The third, fourth, fifth, and sixth stanzas are very closely connected. In these he speaks of the lot of the poor, representing them as without knowledge of any kind, save that of the farm. Reference to Goodrich's History of England shows that these lower classes were without knowledge of any kind, even a great many of the church offices being filled by men who had little or no learning. In the eighth stanza:
"The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth, ere gave,
Await alike the inevitable hour :
The paths of glory lead but to the grave."
In which he expresses the thought, that no matter what a
The ninth is very closely related to the seventh. Notice the beautiful language by which he sets forth these reflections. Do not blame the poor if there is nothing in their memory to keep us ever mindful of them.
person's lot, all have to die and alike answer before the judgment.
"Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault. If memory o'er their tombs no trophies raise."
The eleventh stanza is elegant in every way. The beautiful metaphor—
"But knowledge, to their eyes, her ample page. Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll."
Is rich with the productions of language. The personification
"Chill penury repressed their noble rage And froze the genial current of the soul,"
Is also very pretty.
The twelfth :
"Full many a gem of purest ray serene, The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear; Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air."
Is what may be very appropriately called a figure of beauty. It expresses in genuine poetry the old commonplace proverb, "There are as good fish in the sea, as ever came out of it."
The thirteenth, in which he says that these men may have had the abilities to be Miltons and Cromwells, though they never were placed in such circumstances as to be able to make it known.
The fourteenth is connected with the thirteenth; he says in this that these men might have had the abilities to command the applause of Senates, to laugh at danger, and to be able to make their subjects happy. And from the good which they could have done, it would be plain to read their history in the advancement of their nation. But their lot was such that they would not fight for honors or the throne; which is very beautifully expressed in these lines:
"Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, And shut the gates of mercy on mankind."
The fifteenth,
"Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, Their sober wishes never learned to stray; Along the cool, sequestered vale of life They kept the noiseless tenor of their way."
Expresses very beautifully that they belonged to the very low st class, and that they never left the most common paths of society; they had no desire to become anything more than they were, their knowledge was so limited.
The sixteenth and seventeenth are closely connected; he says that over these poor bones there is still something erected to call our attention to the spot in which they are laid. These, though with uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture, written in the very poorest language, supply the place of fame and elegy.
The eighteenth asks this question: "Who ever died and was ready to go, willing, and never had a longing to stay?" This stanza may be said to be one of the "hidden treasures."
In the twentieth, in which he soliloquizes of himself: For you, who paying so much attention to the unhonored dead, as to relate their tales, probably some person may, in future, inquire of your fate, and some swain may say:
"Otf have we seen him at the peep of dawn, Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, To meet the sun upon the upland lawn."
In the twenty-first and second, he still speaks of himself as