Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, He gained from heaven ('t was all he wished) a friend. No farther seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, (There they alike in trembling hope repose,) The bosom of his Father and his God. Thomas Gray. A LONG STORY. MR. GRAY'S Elegy, previous to its publication, was handed about in MS., and had, amongst other admirers, the Lady Cobham, who resided in the mansion-house at Stoke Pogis. The performance inducing her to wish for the author's acquaintance, Lady Schaub and Miss Speed, then at her house, undertook to introduce her to it. These two ladies waited upon the author at his aunt's solitary habitation, where he at that time resided, and, not finding him at home, they left a card behind them. Mr. Gray, surprised at such a compliment, returned the visit; and as the beginning of this intercourse bore some appearance of romance, he gave the humorous and lively account of it which the Long Story contains. 'N Britain's isle, no matter where, IN An ancient pile of building stands; To raise the ceilings' fretted height, Full oft within the spacious walls, My grave lord-keeper led the brawls: His bushy beard and shoe-strings green, What, in the very first beginning, Shame of the versifying tribe! A house there is (and that's enough) But rustling in their silks and tissues. The first came cap-a-pie from France, The other Amazon kind Heaven Had armed with spirit, wit, and satire; But Cobham had the polish given, And tipped her arrows with good-nature. To celebrate her eyes, her air Coarse panegyrics would but tease her; Melissa is her nom de guerre : Alas! who would not wish to please her? With bonnet blue and capuchin, And aprons long, they hid their armor, And veiled their weapons bright and keen In pity to the country farmer. Fame in the shape of Mr. P―t (By this time all the parish know it) Had told that thereabouts there lurked A wicked imp they called a poet, Who prowled the country far and near, My lady heard their joint petition; Swore by her coronet and ermine, She'd issue out her high commission To rid the manor of such vermin. The heroines undertook the task; Through lanes unknown, o'er stiles they ventured, Rapped at the door, nor stayed to ask, But bounce into the parlor entered. The trembling family they daunt, They flirt, they sing, they laugh, they tattle. Rummage his mother, pinch his aunt, And upstairs in a whirlwind rattle. Each hole and cupboard they explore, Run hurry-scurry round the floor, Into the drawers and china pry, Papers and books, a huge imbroglio! Under a teacup he might lie, Or creased like dog's ears in a folio. On the first marching of the troops, So rumor says, (who will believe?) Short was his joy; he little knew The words too eager to unriddle, So cunning was the apparatus, The powerful pothooks did so move him, That will he nill he to the great house He went as if the devil drove him. Yet on his way (no sign of grace, And begged his aid that dreadful day. The godhead would have backed his quarrel, But with a blush, on recollection, Owned that his quiver and his laurel 'Gainst four such eyes were no protection. The court was sat, the culprit there: Such as in silence of the night Come (sweep) along some winding entry, (Styack has often seen the sight), 1 Or at the chapel door stand sentry; In peaked hoods and mantle tarnished, The peeress comes: the audience stare, To all the people of condition. The bard with many an artful fib 1 The housekeeper. |