Quote

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.

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
Feels
Stranger
Momentary
Blow
Pleasing
Childhood
Careless
Fields
Shade
Happiness
Bliss
Gales
Happy
Hills
Stray
Pain
Beloved
Bestow
Feel
Vain
Gale

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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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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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Some bold adventurers disdain The limits of their little reign, And unknown regions date descry.
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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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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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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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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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Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
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Scatter plenty o'er a smiling land.
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Chill penury repress'd 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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The different steps and degrees of education may be compared to the artificer's operations upon marble it is one thing to dig it out of the quarry, and another to square it, to give it gloss and lustre, call forth every beautiful spot and vein, shape it into a column, or animate it into a statue.
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Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor.
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O'er her warm cheek, and rising bosom, move The bloom of young Desire and purple light of love.
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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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And moody madness laughing wild Amid severest woe.
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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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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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Ah, tell them they are men!
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