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Chill penury repress'd 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
Gray
Current
Currents
Rage
Penury
Noble
Genial
Poverty
Froze
Soul
Repress
Chill

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Thought would destroy their paradise.
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In buskined measures move Pale Grief and pleasing Pain, With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast.
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E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.
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And moody madness laughing wild Amid severest woe.
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We frolic while 'tis May.
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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.
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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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One principal characteristic of vice in the present age is the contempt of fame.
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Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor.
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Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
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Youth smiles without any reason. It is one of its chiefest charms.
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I shall be but a shrimp of an author.
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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.
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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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When love could teach a monarch to be wise, And gospel-light first dawn'd from Bullen's eyes.
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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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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.
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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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Hands that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.
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