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Hands that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.

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
Living
Hands
Might
Waked
Life
Lyre
Sway
Empire
Ecstasy
Empires

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Ah, tell them they are men!
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Some bold adventurers disdain The limits of their little reign, And unknown regions date descry.
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As to posterity, I may ask what has it ever done to oblige me?
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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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The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
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Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
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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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The hues of bliss more brightly glow, Chastis'd by sabler tints of woe.
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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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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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How low, how little are the proud, How indigent the great!
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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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Thought would destroy their paradise.
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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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We frolic while 'tis May.
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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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To brisk notes in cadence beating, glance their many-twinkling feet.
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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.
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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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Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes, Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart.
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