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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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Any fool may write a most valuable book by chance, if he will only tell us what he heard and saw with veracity.
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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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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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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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To contemplation's sober eye, Such is the race of man And they that creep, and they that fly, Shall end where they began, Alike the busy and the gay, But flutter through life's little day.
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Visions of glory, spare my aching sight! Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!
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Some bold adventurers disdain The limits of their little reign, And unknown regions date descry.
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The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
Thomas Gray
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To brisk notes in cadence beating, glance their many-twinkling feet.
Thomas Gray
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And truth severe, by fairy fiction drest.
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And moody madness laughing wild Amid severest woe.
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The Attic warbler pours her throat, Responsive to the cuckoo's note, The untaught harmony of spring.
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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?
Thomas Gray
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Full many a gem of purest ray serene, The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear.
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As to posterity, I may ask what has it ever done to oblige me?
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Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray Along the cool sequester'd vale of life They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.
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The time will come, when thou shalt lift thine eyes To watch a long-drawn battle in the skies. While aged peasants, too amazed for words, Stare at the flying fleets of wondrous birds.
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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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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.
Thomas Gray