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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
Chill
Gray
Current
Currents
Rage
Penury
Noble
Genial
Poverty
Froze
Soul
Repress

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Full many a gem of purest ray serene, The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear.
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The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Awaits alike th' inevitable hour. The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
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Youth smiles without any reason. It is one of its chiefest charms.
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To Contemplation's sober eye. / Such is the race of Man.
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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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Some bold adventurers disdain The limits of their little reign, And unknown regions date descry.
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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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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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Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed.
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I shall be but a shrimp of an author.
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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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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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Visions of glory, spare my aching sight! Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!
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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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In buskined measures move Pale Grief and pleasing Pain, With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast.
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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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Ah, tell them they are men!
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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.
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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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