Quote

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.

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
Tenors
Life
Kept
Ignoble
Cool
Along
Stray
Learning
Strife
Sequester
Learn
Sober
Noiseless
Wish
Wishes
Vale
Way
Crowd
Tenor
Never
Crowds

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The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
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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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How low, how little are the proud, How indigent the great!
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Scatter plenty o'er a smiling land.
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Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.
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I shall be but a shrimp of an author.
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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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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 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?
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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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Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed.
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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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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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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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And truth severe, by fairy fiction drest.
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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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When love could teach a monarch to be wise, And gospel-light first dawn'd from Bullen's eyes.
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The hues of bliss more brightly glow, Chastis'd by sabler tints of woe.
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