the stored-up power in all human muscles, in all the manufactories, in all the guns, all this is almost nothing compared with that of which the sun is capable.

Do we think that we have measured the solar power by 5 enumerating the effects which it produces on the earth? Error! profound, tremendous, foolish error! This would be to believe still that this star has been created only for the purpose of illuminating terrestrial humanity. In reality, what an infinitesimal fraction of the sun's total radia10 tion the earth receives and uses! In order to appreciate it, let us consider the distance of ninety-three millions of miles which separates us from the central star, and at this distance let us see what effect our little globe produces, what heat it intercepts. Let us imagine an immense 15 sphere traced at this distance from the sun, and entirely surrounding it. Well, on this gigantic sphere, the spot intercepted by our little earth is only equivalent to the fraction 2138000000 That is to say that the dazzling solar hearth radiates all around it through immensity a 20 quantity of light and heat two thousand, one hundred and thirty-eight million times more than that which we receive, and of which we have just now estimated the stupendous effects. The earth only stops in its passage the two thousand-millionth part of the total radiation. 25 It is absolutely impossible for our conception to imagine such a proportion.

Nú tri'tious (shus): nourishing. Ludovico Ä ri os'to (14741533): a famous Italian poet. Căl ó rif'ic: producing heat, In fin i těs'i mal: very small.

Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard

BY THOMAS GRAY

Thomas Gray (17161771): An English poet, the author of a few beautiful poems which were corrected and polished in the most painstaking manner. "The Elegy in a Country Churchyard," his most famous poem, occupied him during eight years and was rewritten many times. Among Gray's other poems are "The Progress of Poesy," "The Bard," and "Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton College."

Thomas Gray

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd winds 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.

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Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower

The moping owl does to the moon complain

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Of such as, wandering near her secret bower,
Molest her ancient solitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew tree's shade,
Where heaves the turf in many a moldering heap,
Each in his narrow cell forever laid,

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,

The swallow twittering 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.

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke:
How jocund did they drive their team afield!
How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,

Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile

The short and simple annals of the poor

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,

And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Awaits alike th' inevitable hour:

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,

If Memory o'er their tombs no trophies raise, Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

Can storied urn or animated bust

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Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?

Can Honor's voice provoke the silent dust

Or Flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of death?

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.

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But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page
Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll;

Chill Penury repressed their noble rage,

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And froze the genial current of the soul.

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.

Th' applause of listening senates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to despise,

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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,
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,
Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride

With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,
Their sober wishes never learned to stray;
Along the cool sequestered vale of life

They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

Yet even these bones from insult to protect
Some frail memorial still erected nigh,

With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked,
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,
That teach the rustic moralist to die.

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?