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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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To Contemplation's sober eye. / Such is the race of Man.
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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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Some bold adventurers disdain The limits of their little reign, And unknown regions date descry.
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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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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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The hues of bliss more brightly glow, Chastis'd by sabler tints of woe.
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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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O'er her warm cheek, and rising bosom, move The bloom of young Desire and purple light of love.
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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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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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Along the cool sequestered vale of life, They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.
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When love could teach a monarch to be wise, And gospel-light first dawn'd from Bullen's eyes.
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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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How low, how little are the proud, How indigent the great!
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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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Youth smiles without any reason. It is one of its chiefest charms.
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Visions of glory, spare my aching sight! Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!
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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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Full many a gem of purest ray serene, The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear.
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Alas, regardless of their doom, the little victims play! No sense have they of ills to come nor care beyond today.
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