Thomas Gray

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll; Chill Penury repressed their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.

Hands, that the rod of empire might have swayed, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.

Can storied urn, or animated bust Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust, Or Flatt'ry soothe the dull cold ear of Death?

Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Await alike the inevitable hour: The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

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.

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.

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn.

Each in his narrow cell forever laid, The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r The moping owl does to the moon complain.

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.

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.

Not all that tempts your wandering eyes And heedless hearts, is lawful prize; Nor all that glisters gold.

No dolphin came, no Nereid stirred; Nor cruel Tom, nor Susan heard. A favourite has no friend!

What female heart can gold despise? What cat's averse to fish?

'Twas on a lofty vase's side, Where China's gayest art had dyed The azure flowers, that blow; Demurest of the tabby kind, The pensive Selima reclined, Gazed on the lake below.

To each his suff'rings: all are men, Condemn'd alike to groan, The tender for another's pain; Th' unfeeling for his own. Yet ah! why should they know their fate? Since sorrow never comes too late,

And moody madness laughing wild Amid severest woe.

Grim-visaged comfortless Despair.

Ah, tell them they are men!

Alas, regardless of their doom, The little victims play! No sense have they of ills to come, Nor care beyond today.

Gay hope is theirs by fancy fed, Less pleasing when possest; The tear forgot as soon as shed, The sunshine of the breast.

Still as they run they look behind, They hear a voice in every wind, And snatch a fearful joy.

Ah, happy hills! ah, pleasing shade! Ah, fields beloved in vain! Where once my careless childhood stray'd, A stranger yet to pain! I feel the gales that from ye blow A momentary bliss bestow.