Full many a gem, of purest ray serene, The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear: Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air. Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast The little tyrant of his fields withstood; Some mute, inglorious Milton, here may rest,Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood. The applause of listening senates to command, The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, And read their history in a nation's eyes, Their lot forbade; nor circumscribed alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined; Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, And shut the gates of Mercy on mankind; The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. Yet even these bones from insult to protect, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. Their name, their years, spelt by the unlettered Muse, The place of fame and elegy supply; And many a holy text around she strews, For who to dumb Forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing, anxious being, e'er resigned, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind? On some fond breast the parting soul relies, Some pious drops the closing eye requires; ven from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,— But k in our ashes live their wonted fires. Rich wit Chill Penury mindful of the unhonored dead, And froze the lines their artless tale relate; If chance, by lonely Contemplation led, Haply some hoary-headed swain may say: "There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech, That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, His listless length at noontide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by. Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove; Now drooping, woeful, wan, like one forlorn, Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love. "One morn I missed him on the 'customed hill, Along the heath and near his favorite tree; Another came, nor yet beside the rill, Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he; "The next, with dirges due in sad array Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne: Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." THE EPITAPH. Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth, Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere ; He gained from Heaven ('t was all he wished), a friend. No further 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. VICTOR HUGO. Victor Marie Hugo, the greatest figure in all French literature, was born in Besaucon, France, February 26, 1802, and died May 22, 1885, mourned by the whole literary world. The son of a soldier, reared amidst the excitement that reigned during the turbulent times of Napoleon's empire, what wonder that Hugo became the most dramatic and emotional poet and novelist that the world has ever produced? His first book, "Odes and Ballads," was published when he was twenty years of age. It made the young poet famous at once. In this country his reputation rests chiefly upon his novels, the most admired of which are "The Hunchback of Notre Dame," "The Toilers of the Sea," "Ninety Three," and "Les Miserables." The latter is regarded by many as the greatest novel ever written. He was an ardent lover of liberty, and for defending the rights of the people against Louis Napoleon, "The Imperial Usurper," he suffered banishment from his native land, swearing that he would not return so long as liberty itself remained an exile from France. For eighteen years he remained abroad, and when his beloved country became a republic, he returned to receive high honor from the French people. Victor Hugo's name will be included among the greatest writers of his century. |