Quote

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.

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
Fair
Blows
Zephyr
Blow
Laughs
Trim
Youth
Vessel
Morn
Laughing
Realm
Azure
Goes
Realms
Gilded
Pleasure
Soft
Gallant
Rising
Helm
Fairs
Proudly
Prow

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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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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 moody madness laughing wild Amid severest woe.
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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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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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Scatter plenty o'er a smiling land.
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How low, how little are the proud, How indigent the great!
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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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Her track, where'er the goddess roves, Glory pursue, and gen'rous shame, Th' unconquerable mind, and freedom's holy flame.
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Some bold adventurers disdain The limits of their little reign, And unknown regions date descry.
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Not all that tempts your wandering eyes And heedless hearts, is lawful prize Nor all that glisters gold.
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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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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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Hands that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.
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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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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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Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor.
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Ah, tell them they are men!
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Youth smiles without any reason. It is one of its chiefest charms.
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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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