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Thought would destroy their paradise.

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
Destroy
Destruction
Thought
Would
Thinking
Paradise

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Visions of glory, spare my aching sight! Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!
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Ah, tell them they are men!
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To Contemplation's sober eye. / Such is the race of Man.
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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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Along the cool sequestered vale of life, They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.
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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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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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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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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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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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And truth severe, by fairy fiction drest.
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Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes, Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart.
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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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How low, how little are the proud, How indigent the great!
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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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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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The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
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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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