Lo! where the rosy bosom'd Hours Fair Venus' train appear, Disclose the long-expecting flowers, And wake the purple year! Or those sublime Odes--On The Progress of Poesy. Awake, AEolian lyre, awake; and the Descent of Odin: Uprose the king of men with speed, And saddled strait his coal-black steed: Down the yawning steep he rode, That leads to Hela's drear abode. [Footnote 1: Eton was founded and endowed by King Henry the Sixth. A marble bust of the poet Gray was presented by Lord Morpeth, in 1846, and placed, amongst many others, in the upper school.] Who can ever forget the pleasure experienced on the first perusal, and on every subsequent reading of these fascinating productions? They are such as all, imbued with even a moderate degree of taste and feeling, must respond to. But there is another poem of Gray's, less read, perhaps, than these, but which, from its humor and arch playful style, is apt to make a strong and lasting impression on an enthusiastic juvenile mind. It opens so abruptly and oddly, that attention is bespoke from the first line. It is entitled "A Long Story." In Britain's isle--no matter where-- An ancient pile of building stands: The Huntingdons and Hattons there Employed the power of fairy hands To raise the ceilings fretted height, Each panel in achievements clothing, Rich windows, that exclude the light, And passages, that lead to nothing. This poem, teeming with quaint humor, contains one hundred and forty-four lines, beside, _as it says_, "two thousand which are lost!" Extreme admiration of the poems of Gray had been excited in the writer's mind even when a schoolboy. In after years, whilst occupying chambers in the Temple, he first became aware that the scenery so exquisitely described in the Elegy, and the "ancient pile" of building, so graphically delineated in the Long Story, were both within a few hours' ride of London, and adjoining each other. Until about the year 1815 he had constantly supposed that the Country Church-yard was altogether an imaginary conception, and that the ancient mansion of the Huntingdons was far away, somewhere in the midland counties; but when fully aware of the true localities, he was almost mad with impatience, until, on a Saturday afternoon, _he_ could get relieved from the turmoil of business, to fly to scenes hallowed by recollections of the halcyon days of youthful aspirations of hope, and love, and innocence--and sweetly and fresh do such reminiscences still float in his memory.