Thomas Gray

Ye distant spires, ye antique towers, That crown the wat'ry glade.

Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate, Beneath the good how far,—but far above the great.

Hark, his hands the lyre explore! Bright-eyed Fancy hovering o'er Scatters from her pictured urn Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.

He passed the flaming bounds of place and time: The living throne, the sapphire-blaze, Where angels tremble, while they gaze, He saw; but blasted with excess of light, Closed his eyes in endless night.

Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic tears.

Far from the sun and summer-gale, In thy green lap was Nature's Darling laid.

Her track, where'er the goddess roves, Glory pursue, and gen'rous shame, Th' unconquerable mind, 3 and freedom's holy flame.

O'er her warm cheek and rising bosom move The bloom of young Desire and purple light of Love.

Glance their many-twinkling feet.

From Helicon's harmonious springs A thousand rills their mazy progress take.

From toil he wins his spirits light, From busy day the peaceful night; Rich, from the very want of wealth, In heaven's best treasures, peace and health.

And hie him home, at evening's close, To sweet repast and calm repose.

See the wretch that long has tost On the thorny bed of pain, At length repair his vigour lost, And breathe and walk again: The meanest floweret of the vale, The simplest note that swells the gale,

Behind the steps that Misery treads Approaching Comfort view: The hues of bliss more brightly glow Chastised by sabler tints of woe, And blended form, with artful strife, The strength and harmony of life.

Now as the Paradisiacal pleasures of the Mahometans consist in playing upon the flute and lying with Houris, be mine to read eternal new romances of Marivaux and Crebillon.

When love could teach a monarch to be wise, And gospel-light first dawn'd from Bullen's eyes.

The social smile, the sympathetic tear.

Rich windows that exclude the light, And passages that lead to nothing.

And weep the more, because I weep in vain.

Sweet is the breath of vernal shower, The bee's collected treasures sweet, Sweet music's melting fall, but sweeter yet The still small voice of gratitude.

While bright-eyed Science watches round.

Comus and his midnight crew.

I shall be but a shrimp of an author.

Too poor for a bribe, and too proud to importune, He had not the method of making a fortune.