Gray was twenty-two years old when he left Cambridge. He spent the following six months at home, and then accepted the invitation of one of his college friends to accompany him, free of expense, on a tour through France and Italy. His notes and letters written during this trip show remarkable taste and learning. [Illustration] After two and a half years of travel he returned to England. His father died during the next fall, after wasting his fortune. Gray began the study of law, but had not the means to finish the course. He began to devote his time to writing, left London, where he had spent the winter, and went with his mother to visit an uncle who lived in a country hamlet called Stoke Poges. In this quiet village he wrote his “Ode on the Spring,” “Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton College,” and began the “Elegy Written in a Country Church-Yard.” The “Elegy” is one of the most celebrated poems ever written. It was begun when Gray was twenty-six years old, but he did not finish it until eight years later. Its fame spread over the world, and it still holds its rank as the most perfect of English poems. The poet lived at Cambridge, where he devoted his time to study. The “Elegy” and a later work, “The Bard,” placed him at the head of English poets. He was offered the office of poet laureate, which he refused. In 1768 Gray accepted the chair of Modern History and Languages at Cambridge. The last years of the poet’s life were spent very quietly. He avoided society and was rarely seen in public. He died in London in 1771. 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, 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 secret bow’r, Molest her ancient solitary reign. Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree’s shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mould’ring heap, Each in his narrow cell forever laid, The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep. [Illustration: CHURCH AT STOKE POGES.] 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.