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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.

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
Pain
Another
Unfeeling
Men
Groan
Condemn
Tender
Alike
Rings
Suffering

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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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As to posterity, I may ask what has it ever done to oblige me?
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And moody madness laughing wild Amid severest woe.
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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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Thought would destroy their paradise.
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Full many a gem of purest ray serene, The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear.
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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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The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
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Some bold adventurers disdain The limits of their little reign, And unknown regions date descry.
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Chill penury repress'd 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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Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed.
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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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Not all that tempts your wandering eyes And heedless hearts, is lawful prize Nor all that glisters gold.
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The hues of bliss more brightly glow, Chastis'd by sabler tints of 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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Visions of glory, spare my aching sight! Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!
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Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
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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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Along the cool sequestered vale of life, They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.
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