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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.

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
Freedom
Goddess
Mind
Flame
Flames
Pursue
Track
Shame
Glory
Rous
Holy
Unconquerable

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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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Hands that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.
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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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Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.
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And truth severe, by fairy fiction drest.
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Some bold adventurers disdain The limits of their little reign, And unknown regions date descry.
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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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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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When love could teach a monarch to be wise, And gospel-light first dawn'd from Bullen's eyes.
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To Contemplation's sober eye. / Such is the race of Man.
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The hues of bliss more brightly glow, Chastis'd by sabler tints of woe.
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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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E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.
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How low, how little are the proud, How indigent the great!
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I shall be but a shrimp of an author.
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Along the cool sequestered vale of life, They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.
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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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Thought would destroy their paradise.
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To brisk notes in cadence beating, glance their many-twinkling feet.
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