GRAY, THOMAS, an English poet, was b. in London Dec. 26, 1716. His father, Philip Gray, a money-scrivener, was of a disposition so violent, that his wife was obliged to separate from him; and it was mainly through her exertions that her son was placed at Eton, and afterwards at Cambridge. At Eton he made the acquaintance of Horace Walpole, the son of the prime minister; and when his college education was completed, he accompanied his friend on a tour through France and Italy. After spending a year in the search of the picturesque and in the exploration of picture galleries, the friends quarreled, and Gray returned to England, and went to Cambridge to take his degree in civil law. At the university the greater portion of his life was spent breathing the serene air of noble libraries, and corresponding with friends, as only the men of that day could correspond. In 1756, in consequence of a practical joke, he removed from St. Peter's college to Pembroke hall. He had a just appreciation of the natural beauty of his native country, and rambled in Scotland, Wales, and the English lake counties. He made notes wherever he went, and wrote copious descrip tions of what he had seen to his literary friends. He published his Ode to Eton College' in 1747, and his Elegy written in a Country Churchyard two years afterwards. His
Pindaric Odes appeared in 1757; but however much they might dazzle the imagination with brilliant imagery, and charm the ear with involved and intricate harmony, they did not touch the popular heart like the Elegy. On the death of Colley Cibber, he was offered, but declined, the post of poet-laureate. Shortly after, he was appointed pro fessor of modern history. Fastidious in his tastes, fond of books and lettered ease, indisposed to mingle in the great world, but delighting to comment upon it in letters to friends, blessed with a reputation peculiarly dear to a scholar's heart, comparatively rich, his life glided on imbittered but by one enemy—gout. Dining one day in the college hall, he was severely attacked, and after suffering a week, he died July 30, 1771, aged 55 years. He was buried by the side of his mother at Stokes near Eton.
The poetry of Gray, with the exception of the Elegy—which everybody knows—has never become popular; yet in its own sphere it is very perfect; delicately if not richly imaginative, curiously studded with imagery; exquisitely finished, like miniatures painted on ivory. But his subjects are often remote, and out of the track of ordinary human feelings.