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The Attic warbler pours her throat, Responsive to the cuckoo's note, The untaught harmony of spring.

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
Responsive
Note
Throat
Untaught
Notes
Cuckoo
Harmony
Cuckoos
Spring
Attic
Attics
Pours

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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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Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.
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For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing ling'ring look behind?
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As to posterity, I may ask what has it ever done to oblige me?
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We frolic while 'tis May.
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Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
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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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Full many a gem of purest ray serene, The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear.
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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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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.
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The hues of bliss more brightly glow, Chastis'd by sabler tints of woe.
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And truth severe, by fairy fiction drest.
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One principal characteristic of vice in the present age is the contempt of fame.
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And moody madness laughing wild Amid severest woe.
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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 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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The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
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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 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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In buskined measures move Pale Grief and pleasing Pain, With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast.
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