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And truth severe, by fairy fiction drest.

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
Severe
Fairy
Fiction
Truth
Drest

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The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
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As to posterity, I may ask what has it ever done to oblige me?
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Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
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Some bold adventurers disdain The limits of their little reign, And unknown regions date descry.
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We frolic while 'tis May.
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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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Visions of glory, spare my aching sight! Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!
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Sweet is the breath of vernal shower,/ The bee's collected treasure sweet,/ Sweet music's melting fall, but sweeter yet/ The still small voice of gratitude.
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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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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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The Attic warbler pours her throat, Responsive to the cuckoo's note, The untaught harmony of spring.
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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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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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To each his suff'rings: all are men, / Condemn'd alike to groan, / The tender for another's pain / Th' unfeeling for his own.
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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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Hands that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.
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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
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Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed.
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Thought would destroy their paradise.
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Fair laughs the morn, and soft the zephyr blows, While proudly rising o'er the azure realm In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes, Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm.
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