THE DEATH OF HOEL. HAD I but the torrent's might, With headlong rage and wild affright To rush and sweep them from the world! Too, too secure in youthful pride, A LONG STORY.* IN Britain's isle, no matter where, To raise the ceilings fretted height, Full oft within the spacious walls, When he had fifty winters o'er him, * Mr. Gray's Elegy in a Country Church Yard, before it appeared in print, was handed about in manuscript; and amongst other eminent personages who saw and admired it, was the Lady Cobham, who resided at the Mansion-House, at Stoke-Pogeis. The performance induced her to wish for the author's acquaintance; and Lady Schaub and Miss Speed, then at her house, undertook to effect it. These two ladies waited upon the author at his aunt's solitary mansion, where he at that time resided; and not finding him at home, they left their names and a billet. Mr. Gray, surprised at such a compliment, returned the visit. And as the beginning of this acquaintance wore a little of the face of romance, he soon after gave a fanciful and pleasant account of it in the following copy of verses, which he entitled, "A Long Story. + The Mansion-House, at Stoke-Pogeis, then in the possession of Viscountess Cobham. The house formerly belonged to the Earls of Huntingdon, and the family of Hatton. Sir Christopher Hatton, promoted by Queen Elizabeth for his graceful person and fine dancing.-Brawls were a sort of figure-dance, then in vogue. His bushy beard, and shoe-strings green, Though Pope and Spaniard could not trouble it. What, in the very first beginning! 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 heav'n Had arm'd with spirit, wit, and satire : But Cobham had the polish giv'n, And tipp'd 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 capuchine, And aprons long, they hid their armour, And veil'd their weapons, bright and keen, In pity to the country farmer. Onward still his way he takes, (The groaning earth beneath him shakes) Till full before his fearless eyes The portals nine of Hell arise. Right against the eastern gate, Thrice he trac'd the Runic rhyme; PROPHETESS. What call unknown, what charms, presume And drags me from the realms of night? Who is he, with voice unbless'd, ODIN. A Traveller, to thee unknown, Is he that calls a Warrior's Son. Thou the deeds of light shalt know; For whom yon glittering board is spread? The pure beverage of the bee, ODIN. Once again my call obey. PROPHETESS. In Hoder's hand the Hero's doom; His brother sends him to the tomb. Now my weary lips I close: Leave me, leave me to repose. ODIN. Prophetess, my spell obey, Once again arise, and say, Who the' Avenger of his guilt, PROPHETESS. In the caverns of the west, By Odin's fierce embrace compress'd, A wondrous Boy shall Rinda bear, Who ne'er shall comb his raven-hair, |