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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.

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
Best
Wealth
Treasures
Rich
Wins
Winning
Toil
Heaven
Spirits
Peace
Peaceful
Spirit
Treasure
Night
Busy
Light
Health

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Chill penury repress'd their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.
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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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To brisk notes in cadence beating, glance their many-twinkling feet.
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Some bold adventurers disdain The limits of their little reign, And unknown regions date descry.
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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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As to posterity, I may ask what has it ever done to oblige me?
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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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Along the cool sequestered vale of life, They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.
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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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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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Thought would destroy their paradise.
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How low, how little are the proud, How indigent the great!
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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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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 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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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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E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.
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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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