have left the deepest impression are “The Bard" and the "6 Progress of Poesy." These are both Pindaric in style, and although at the present day the poet's name is seldom associated with them, they were, nevertheless, in his own time important factors in establishing his high repute. Perhaps in no other of his poems, with the exception of his famous Elegy, can be found verses of such sweetness and such melody as in "The Bard," where he sings: 44 'Fair laughs the Morn and soft the Zephyr blows, In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes: Youth at the prow, and Pleasure at the helm." Yet Gray's fame rests not upon his letters or his odes, but rather upon the production of one 'flawless masterpiece," his Elegy written in a Country Church-yard. Lowell has said of him: He is especially interesting as an artist in words and phrases"; and it is in this Elegy that the truth of that statement is verified. Employing language of such simplicity that the humblest may read and understand, clothing sentiments common to all mankind in the garb of deepest emotion, he has reached a pinnacle of grandeur and perfection surpassed by no other poet of our tongue. Perfection, we say! Yes, but it is rather perfection repressed; not that of Pope, which rather astonishes than carries one along, but that of the master who first overpowers us by the sweetness of his song and then attracts us by the excellence of his verse. Gray's poetry is the music of the gently rippling rill; so sweet that one listens and knows not why he listens; so excellent that one reads and reads again, only to stop and wonder what attracts him so. No harsh sounding words are there to mar the melody, no metrical errors or blunders to destroy the perfect rhythm. All is excellence. Throughout the whole Elegy there runs a vein of melancholy, which arises, perhaps, not more from the nature of the selection than from the poet's own reticent and somewhat melancholy spirit. An atmosphere of quiet hovers over every line, the quiet and loneliness of the church-yard. What a picture the artist of words draws in those first few stanzas, a poem in themselves! The masterpiece of language might well furnish the painter with a scene for a masterpiece of art. Yet here again Gray does not so much dwell upon natural scenery as he moralizes upon human nature itself. And it is in these very reflections that he is at his best. What more beautiful stanzas can be found, or what verses are more widely quoted, than those wherein he defends the peasant in his "homely joys" and "useful toil ?" He speaks in deathless language when he says: "The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Awaits alike th' inevitable hour: The paths of glory lead but to the grave." It is greatly to be regretted that Gray did not devote himself more faithfully to the composi tion of poetry. Though living to the age of fifty-five, he produced hardly fourteen hundred verses. A man of wonderful erudition, skilled as well in botany, zoölogy, history and philosophy as in literature; one of the foremost scholars of his day, he exercised his talent in no other direction. Perhaps this unproductiveness of his genius in other lines greatly aided the perfection of his immortal Elegy; for it seems the very essence of his learning; all the sincerity of his emotion is infused into the lifeblood of this undying poem. Small in stature, delicate in person, handsome, and refined, fond of fashionable dress,-this marvellous versifier preferred the epithet “gentleman" to that of "poet." When offered the position of Poet Laureate of England he modestly refused it, choosing in its stead the chair of professor of modern literature and language at Cambridge University, to which he was appointed in 1769. Gray died July 24, 1771. He is laid to rest in the same tomb with his mother and his aunt in the old church-yard at Stokes Poge, Buckinghamshire, which is often believed to be the scene of his Elegy. W. E. LEAHY, '07. THE FRESHMEN'S CRIB. DEDICATED TO A. DOBSON. Concealable, delicate, white, Picture it if you can,- The crib for the mid-year exam. See how their faces light, As they write out Avez-Vous; Eager to pass, -Oh, 'tis true! By cribbing the mid-year exam. Ah! but things far beyond right Were scrolled on that parchment new, Things that would bring down a blight, If only the teacher knew; Things that, alas! overthrew Those in whose brains they began. L'ENVOI. Where is that parchment new, GEORGE CONNOR, '07. A REVERIE. It was very late and I sat alone in the stillness of the great house. Outside I could hear the sobbing and moaning of the fierce December wind as it hurled the snow flakes against the window-panes, and now and then I caught a gleam of white as the flakes dashed themselves like a fairy army against the glass and then fell back repulsed. I was buried in my old easy chair, watching the antics of the glowing flames in the open hearth before me as they leaped up the great chimney as if seeking the open air. Wrinkles, the cat, sat at one side of me, gazing thoughtfully into the fire and following the movements of the tiny flames as though they were alive. The sage look in her eyes and the pucker in her forehead said just as plainly as words that she was making out her invitation list to a grand reunion, with all the accompanying music, on the fence under my window, as soon as favorable weather set in. The list must have been satisfactory to her diabolic fancy, for from time to time she looked up at me with a sly blink and a vicious jerk of her tail that bespoke her pleasure, and one paw went slowly over her mouth as if suppressing a chuckle. Opposite Wrinkles on the thick, warm rug, sprawled Rex, my setter pup, not as yet come to the use of reason. He was a nervous, restless |