She dropped her glove to prove his love, then looked at him and smiled ;

He bowed and in a moment leaped among the lions wild : The leap was quick-return was quick: he has regained the place

Then threw the glove, but not with love-right in the lady's face.

In truth,' cried Francis, 'rightly done!' and he rose from where he sat t;

'Not love,' quoth he, but vanity, sets love a task like that!'

Thomas Gray was born in London in 1716. He was educated at Eton and Cambridge-studying at the latter place with the view of becoming a lawyer. In 1739 he made a tour on the Continent as tutor to the son of Sir Robert Walpole. On his return he settled at Cambridge and devoted himself to literature. He became Professor of Modern History at the University there in 1768, which post he occupied till his death in 1771. The Elegy is his finest poem, but he also wrote "The Bard,'' Ode to Eton College,' &c.

THE curfew2 tolls the knell of parting day;

The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea;

1 The churchyard referred to is that of Stoke Pogis, whose 'ivied tower, rugged elms, dark yew-tree, and mouldering turf, still freshen and apply the moral of the verse.'

2 Curfew, French couvre-feu, cover-fire. The practice of ringing the curfew-bell every night at eight o'clock as a signal for putting out all fires, was introduced into England by the Normans. Its real object was to prevent the conquered Saxons from holding meetings during the night, but it was also a safeguard against the breaking out of fires in the wooden houses which then existed.

The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimmering 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;

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.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,

The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her evening care;

No children run to lisp their sire's return,
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

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 bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

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.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp

of power,

And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Await alike the inevitable hour:

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault
If memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise,
Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

Can storied urn or animated bust

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
Can honour's voice provoke the silent dust,
Or flattery soothe the dull cold ear of death?

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid

Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.

But knowledge to their eyes her ample page,

Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll;

Chill penury repressed their noble rage,

And froze the genial current of the soul.

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.

Some village Hampden,' that with dauntless breast
The little tyrant of his fields withstood,
Some mute inglorious Milton,2 here may rest;
Some Cromwell 3 guiltless of his country's blood.

The applause of listening senates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,

And read their history in a nation's eyes,

Their lot forbade : nor circumscribed alone

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

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.

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.

Yet even these bones from insult to protect,
Some frail memorial still erected nigh,

1 Hampden, a distinguished patriot who lived in the reign of Charles I.

2 Milton, John Milton the poet. See p. 176.

3 Cromwell, the Lord Protector of England,