in the service of God and the increase of the Church-in other words that he was a saint in a less strict sense of the word, seems to be fairly certified by careful research. Whether he was a saint in that highest sense which is meant when we speak of formal canonization must ultimately depend upon the intervention of Heaven.

COVENTRY PATMORE

II

THE TOYS

COVENTRY PATMORE

COVENTRY PATMORE (born in England in 1823; died there in 1896) was educated privately, owing much in knowledge of literature to the teachings of his father. Though his father was a free-thinker, Coventry early embraced Christianity. In 1864 he became a Roman Catholic. His best known long poem is "The Angel in the House," which has charming pictures of English scenery and household life. Our selection is from his volume "The Unknown Eros," which contains many poems peculiarly original and powerful, but whose meaning it is not always easy to grasp.

My little Son, who look'd from thoughtful eyes
And moved and spoke in quiet grown-up wise,
Having my law the seventh time disobey'd,
I struck him, and dismiss'd

With hard words and unkiss'd;

His Mother, who was patient, being dead.

Then, fearing lest his grief should hinder sleep,
I visited his bed,

But found him slumbering deep,

With darken'd eyelids, and their lashes yet
From his late sobbing wet.

And, I with moan,

Kissing away his tears, left others of my own;

For, on a table drawn beside his head,

He had put, within his reach,

A box of counters and a red-vein'd stone,

A piece of glass abraded by the beach

And six or seven shells,

A bottle with bluebells

And two French copper coins, ranged there with

careful art,

To comfort his sad heart.

So when that night I pray'd

To God, I wept, and said:

Ah, when at last we lie with tranced breath,

Not vexing Thee in death,

And Thou rememberest of what toys

We made our joys,

How weakly understood

Thy great commanded good,

Then, fatherly not less

Than I whom Thou hast molded from the clay,
Thou'lt leave Thy wrath, and say,

"I will be sorry for their childishness."

III

AN ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD

THOMAS GRAY

THOMAS GRAY was born in London in 1716. At Eton he became intimate with Horace Walpole, with whom he afterward traveled in Italy. He refused the poet-laureateship, but secured the professorship of history at Cambridge. His best known work is the "Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard." Every American schoolboy knows what Wolfe said after repeating the ninth stanza of the elegy to the officers about him, on the eve of the battle before Quebec: "Gentlemen, I would rather have written those lines than take Quebec.' Other poems are "Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton College," "The Progress of Poetry," and "The Bard." He wrote also some Essays and Letters. He died in 1771.

THOMAS GRAY

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,

The lowing herd wind 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,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,

curfew: In olden times it was ordered that a bell should be rung every evening, as a signal that all the people should go into their houses and shut the doors.

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 Of such as wand'ring near her sacred bow'r, Molest her ancient solitary reign.

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

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,

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.

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 teams afield! How bow'd 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 pow'r,

And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Await alike th' inevitable hour.

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 thro' 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 Honor's voice provoke the silent dust,

Or Flatt'ry 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 wak'd 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 repress'd their noble rage,

And froze the genial current of the soul.

Full many a gem of purest ray serene

The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear;
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

storied urn: an urn on which a story is carved.
animated: lifelike.

provoke: call forth.