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Some bold adventurers disdain The limits of their little reign, And unknown regions date descry.

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
Adventure
Adventurers
Limits
Adventurer
Littles
Disdain
Little
Bold
Reign
Regions
Date
Unknown

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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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Chill penury repress'd their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.
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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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Thought would destroy their paradise.
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Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.
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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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How low, how little are the proud, How indigent the great!
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We frolic while 'tis May.
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Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor.
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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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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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Youth smiles without any reason. It is one of its chiefest charms.
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Scatter plenty o'er a smiling land.
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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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Now as the Paradisiacal pleasures of the Mahometans consist in playing upon the flute and lying with Houris, be mine to read eternal new romances of Marivaux and Crebillon.
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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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Full many a gem of purest ray serene, The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear.
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As to posterity, I may ask what has it ever done to oblige me?
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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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E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.
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