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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?

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
Call
Honour
Soothe
Voice
Dull
Mansion
Death
Breath
Bust
Back
Breaths
Provoke
Dust
Mansions
Ears
Provoking
Silent
Animated
Cold
Fleeting
Storied

More quotes by Thomas Gray

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The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
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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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Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor.
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Any fool may write a most valuable book by chance, if he will only tell us what he heard and saw with veracity.
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And truth severe, by fairy fiction drest.
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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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Not all that tempts your wandering eyes And heedless hearts, is lawful prize Nor all that glisters gold.
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Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray Along the cool sequester'd vale of life They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.
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Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed.
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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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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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The Attic warbler pours her throat, Responsive to the cuckoo's note, The untaught harmony of spring.
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Scatter plenty o'er a smiling land.
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Full many a gem of purest ray serene, The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear.
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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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As to posterity, I may ask what has it ever done to oblige me?
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To brisk notes in cadence beating, glance their many-twinkling feet.
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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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Ah, tell them they are men!
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I shall be but a shrimp of an author.
Thomas Gray