Selections from Five English Poets

What passion cannot Music raise and quell? When Jubal[4] struck the corded shell,[5] His list'ning brethren stood around, And, wond'ring, on their faces fell To worship that celestial sound, 20 Less than a god they thought there could not dwell Within the hollow of that shell That spoke so sweetly and so well. What passion cannot Music raise and quell?

The trumpet's loud clangor 25 Excites us to arms, With shrill notes of anger And mortal alarms.[6] The double double double beat Of the thundering drum 30 Cries, "Hark, the foes come! Charge, charge, 't is too late to retreat!"

The soft complaining flute In dying notes discovers[7] The woes of hopeless lovers, 35 Whose dirge is whispered by the warbling lute.

Sharp violins proclaim Their jealous pangs and desperation, Fury, frantic indignation, Depth of pains and height of passion, 40 For the fair disdainful dame.

But oh! what art can teach, What human voice can reach The sacred organ's praise? Notes inspiring holy love, 45 Notes that wing their heavenly ways To mend[8] the choirs above.

Orpheus[9] could lead the savage race, And trees unrooted left their place, Sequacious of the lyre; 50 But bright Cecilia raised the wonder higher: When to her organ vocal breath was given, An angel heard, and straight[10] appeared-- Mistaking earth for heaven.

Grand Chorus

As from the power of sacred lays 55 The spheres began to move, And sung the great Creator's praise To all the blest above: So, when the last and dreadful hour[11] This crumbling pageant shall devour, 60 The trumpet shall be heard on high, The dead shall live, the living die, And Music shall untune the sky.

NOTE.--Dryden wrote this song in 1687 for the festival of St. Cecilia, the patron saint of music. To be appreciated it must be read aloud, for it is full of musical effects, especially stanzas 3-6. St. Cecilia has been represented by Raphael and other artists as playing upon some instrument, surrounded by listening angels.

[1.] From harmony, etc. Some of the ancients believed that music helped in the creation of the heavenly bodies, and that their motions were accompanied by a harmony known as "the music of the spheres."

[2.] This universal frame, the visible universe.

[3.] The diapason, etc. The diapason means here the entire compass of tones. The idea is that in man, the highest of God's creatures, are included all the virtues and powers of the lower creation.

[4.] Jubal. It is said of Jubal: "He was the father of all such as handle the harp and organ."--Genesis iv, 21.

[5.] The corded shell, i.e. the lyre. The first lyre was supposed to have been formed by drawing strings over a tortoise shell.

[6.] Mortal alarms, i.e. notes that rouse men to deadly conflict.

[7.] Discovers, reveals.

[8.] Mend, amend, improve.

[9.] Orpheus is said to have been a Thracian poet who moved rocks and trees and tamed wild beasts by playing upon his lyre.

[10.] Straight, straightway, immediately.

[11.] The last and dreadful hour, the Day of Judgment.

In speaking of Gray, some one has said that no other writer has come down to posterity with such a small book under his arm; and to this may be added the statement that every piece in his book shows careful finish. His fame rests mainly on three poems: the Elegy, The Progress of Poesy, and The Bard. Of these the Elegy is by far the most popular, because it expresses in simple and beautiful language sentiments which appeal to all, whatever their condition.

In character Gray was high-minded, and in temperament reserved and shy. It is said that after he was acknowledged to be the greatest poet living in England, people used to watch eagerly for a glimpse of him; but he usually managed to elude them and to slip away unnoticed. His sensitiveness may have been due in part to the fact that his health was delicate and that he was much alone when a child--for all his brothers and sisters died in infancy. Although unfortunate in his father, he was blessed with a devoted mother, who by her exertions enabled him to go to Cambridge University. It is pleasant to know that he warmly returned her love and that he now rests by her side in the churchyard at Stoke Poges, which is always associated with the Elegy. On her tomb he placed the inscription "--mother of many children, one of whom alone had the misfortune to survive her." Gray's friends were warmly attached to him. With one of them, Horace Walpole, the well-known author and collector, he traveled on the continent soon after leaving the university; and although they quarreled and separated the friendship was renewed later. Gray never married. In 1742 he returned to Cambridge and lived there during the rest of his life, with the exception of two years spent in London. After he became famous the laureateship was offered to him, but his dislike of publicity caused him to refuse it. In 1768 he was made Professor of Modern History and Languages at Cambridge. All his life he was a student; indeed he was the most learned of the English poets, except possibly Milton. In some respects he was in advance of his age. He appreciated certain kinds of poetry that no one else liked in his time, and he cared greatly for wild nature. In these days, when almost every one loves rugged mountains and remote regions by the sea, it is hard to realize that there ever was a time when most persons preferred to look upon trim or even stiff gardens or the cultivated grounds of a country seat; but such was the case. Gray's admiration for wild nature comes out in his prose, especially in his letters, and in his Journal in the Lakes written in 1769; but later writers, Wordsworth above all, have expressed the same feeling in delightful verse.

As a poet Gray stands for beauty of form rather than for depth of thought or breadth of sympathy. He is first of all an artist, and his poems are among the most perfect in the English language.

Written in a Country Churchyard

The curfew[1] tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, The plowman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, 5 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 tow'r The moping owl does to the moon complain 10 Of such, as wand'ring near her secret bow'r, Molest her ancient solitary reign.

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, 15 The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn,[2] 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. 20

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, 25 Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe[3] 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; 30 Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor.

The boast of heraldry,[4] the pomp of pow'r, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Awaits alike th' inevitable hour. 35 The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Nor you, ye Proud, impute to these the fault, If Mem'ry o'er their tomb no trophies raise, Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault[5] The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. 40

Can storied urn[6] or animated[7] bust Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can Honour's voice provoke[8] the silent dust, Or Flatt'ry sooth the dull cold ear of Death?

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 45 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; 50 Chill Penury repressed their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.

Full many a gem of purest ray serene[9] The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear: Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, 55 And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

Some village-Hampden,[10] that with dauntless breast, The little Tyrant of his fields withstood, Some mute inglorious Milton[11] here may rest, Some Cromwell[12] guiltless of his country's blood. 60

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