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Along the cool sequestered vale of life, They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.

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
Way
Life
Sequestered
Noiseless
Vale
Kept
Cool
Along

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Youth smiles without any reason. It is one of its chiefest charms.
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Chill penury repress'd their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.
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Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor.
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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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Thought would destroy their paradise.
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How low, how little are the proud, How indigent the great!
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Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.
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Fair laughs the morn, and soft the zephyr blows, While proudly rising o'er the azure realm In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes, Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm.
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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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The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
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To brisk notes in cadence beating, glance their many-twinkling feet.
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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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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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When love could teach a monarch to be wise, And gospel-light first dawn'd from Bullen's eyes.
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Hands that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.
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Ah, tell them they are men!
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Not all that tempts your wandering eyes And heedless hearts, is lawful prize Nor all that glisters gold.
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For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing ling'ring look behind?
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Alas, regardless of their doom, the little victims play! No sense have they of ills to come nor care beyond today.
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Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
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