EXERCISE CXLVI. BLENHEIM (Blen' hime) is a village in Bavaria, where was fought a great battle, August 13th, 1704, between the English and the Austrians on the one side, under the Duke of Marlborough and Prince Eugene, and the French and the Bavarians on the other, under Marshal Tallard, Marsin, and the Elector of Bavaria. The French and the Bavarians were defeated; but the loss on both sides was immense. This defeat gave a decided check to the ambition of Louis XIV. THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM. I. It was on a summer evening, And by him sported on the green, II. She saw her brother Peterkin In playing there, had found; That was so large, and smooth, and round. III. Old Kasper took it from the boy, Who stood expectant by; And then the old man shook his head, And with a natural sigh, ""Tis some poor fellow's skull," said he, * See Exercise VII. SOUTHEY. IV. "I find them in the garden, V. "Now tell us what 'twas all about," "Now tell us all about the war, And what they killed each other for." VI. "It was the English," Kasper cried, VII. "My father lived at Blenheim then, Yon little stream, hard by; They burnt his dwelling to the ground, And he was forced to fly; So, with his wife and little child, he fled, Nor had he where to rest his head. VIII. "With fire and sword, the country round Was wasted, far and wide; And many a nursing mother then, And new-born baby died; But things like that, you know must be At every famous victory. IX. "They say it was a shocking sight, For many thousand bodies here Lay rotting in the sun; But things like that, you know, must be X. "Great praise the Duke of Marlbrough won, Said little Wilhelmine. "Nay, nay, my little girl," quoth he, XI. "And every body praised the Duke "Why, that I can not tell," said he, EXERCISE CXLVII. THOMAS GRAY was born in London, December 26th, 1716, and died July 24th, 1771. After his college course, during which he was supported with difficulty by the private earnings of his mother, his father, a selfish man, utterly refusing to maintain him, he set out (in 1739) on a tour over the continent. Two months after his return to London, in September, 1741, his father, having squandered what money he had, died. His mother, who, with a near relative, had carried on a small business, and had now amassed a moderate competence, retired to Stoke Pogis, in Buckinghamshire. Here, it is said, he conceived the design of his immortal Elegy, while visiting the beautiful churchyard in that place. The Elegy was finished in 1749; having been begun just seven years before. "Almost every line" [of it], it has been well remarked, "has fixed itself upon the popular mind, is repeated every year and every day by the cultivated and the unlearned, and has a vital truthfulness that is never old." Gray is the author of several other poems of remarkable merit, but is, and always will be, best known, as the author of this matchless performance. He was a person of small stature, handsome features, stuliously nice in dress, and remarkably reserved in company, though known to be a man of almost universal culture. ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD. I. The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, II. THOMAS GR/ Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight. III. Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower, IV. Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. V. The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, VI. For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, VII. Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; How jocund did they drive their team a-field! How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! VIII. Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, IX. The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, The paths of glory lead but to the grave. X. Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, Where, through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault, The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. XI. Can storied urn or animated bust Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? XII. Perhaps, in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre: XIII. But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page, Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll; |