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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.

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

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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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Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch A broader browner shade Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech O'er-canopies the glade, Beside some water's rushy brink With me the Muse shall sit, and think.
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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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Youth smiles without any reason. It is one of its chiefest charms.
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Thought would destroy their paradise.
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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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One principal characteristic of vice in the present age is the contempt of fame.
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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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Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed.
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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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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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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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Some bold adventurers disdain The limits of their little reign, And unknown regions date descry.
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Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.
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Ah, tell them they are men!
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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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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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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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In buskined measures move Pale Grief and pleasing Pain, With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast.
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To Contemplation's sober eye. / Such is the race of Man.
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