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When love could teach a monarch to be wise, And gospel-light first dawn'd from Bullen's eyes.

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
Firsts
Monarchs
First
Dawn
Love
Gospel
Wise
Teach
Eyes
Eye
Light
Monarch

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To brisk notes in cadence beating, glance their many-twinkling feet.
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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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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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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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Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes, Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart.
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Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
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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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Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor.
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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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And moody madness laughing wild Amid severest woe.
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In buskined measures move Pale Grief and pleasing Pain, With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast.
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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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We frolic while 'tis May.
Thomas Gray
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T'was Spring, t'was Summer, all was gay Now Autumn bears a cloud brow The flowers of Spring are swept way And Summer fruits desert the bough
Thomas Gray
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The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
Thomas Gray
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How low, how little are the proud, How indigent the great!
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Some bold adventurers disdain The limits of their little reign, And unknown regions date descry.
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The hues of bliss more brightly glow, Chastis'd by sabler tints of woe.
Thomas Gray