Quote

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.

Thomas Gray

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Thomas Gray
Age: 54 †
Born: 1716
Born: December 26
Died: 1771
Died: July 30
Literary Critic
Poet
London
England
Eyes
Chill
Knowledge
Current
Penury
Eye
Currents
Genial
Soul
Rage
Froze
Time
Page
Spoils
Noble
Ample
Pages
Repressed
Rich
Spoil

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To Contemplation's sober eye. / Such is the race of Man.
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Thought would destroy their paradise.
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To brisk notes in cadence beating, glance their many-twinkling feet.
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One principal characteristic of vice in the present age is the contempt of fame.
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T'was Spring, t'was Summer, all was gay Now Autumn bears a cloud brow The flowers of Spring are swept way And Summer fruits desert the bough
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In buskined measures move Pale Grief and pleasing Pain, With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast.
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Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
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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?
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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.
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And moody madness laughing wild Amid severest woe.
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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 happiness too swiftly flies? Thought would destroy their paradise. No more where ignorance is bliss, 'T is folly to be wise.
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Along the cool sequestered vale of life, They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.
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Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, Heaven did a recompense as largely send: He gave to mis'ry (all he had) a tear, He gained from Heav'n ('t was all he wish'd) a friend.
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Her track, where'er the goddess roves, Glory pursue, and gen'rous shame, Th' unconquerable mind, and freedom's holy flame.
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Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor.
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Sweet is the breath of vernal shower,/ The bee's collected treasure sweet,/ Sweet music's melting fall, but sweeter yet/ The still small voice of gratitude.
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As to posterity, I may ask what has it ever done to oblige me?
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The applause of list'ning senates to command, The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, And read their history in a nation's eyes.
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O'er her warm cheek, and rising bosom, move The bloom of young Desire and purple light of love.
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The hues of bliss more brightly glow, Chastis'd by sabler tints of woe.
Thomas Gray