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How low, how little are the proud, How indigent the great!

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
Great
Indigent
Lows
Proud
Littles
Little

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And truth severe, by fairy fiction drest.
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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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Chill penury repress'd their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.
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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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To brisk notes in cadence beating, glance their many-twinkling feet.
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Ah, tell them they are men!
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I shall be but a shrimp of an author.
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The time will come, when thou shalt lift thine eyes To watch a long-drawn battle in the skies. While aged peasants, too amazed for words, Stare at the flying fleets of wondrous birds.
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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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Scatter plenty o'er a smiling land.
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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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Not all that tempts your wandering eyes And heedless hearts, is lawful prize Nor all that glisters gold.
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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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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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The Attic warbler pours her throat, Responsive to the cuckoo's note, The untaught harmony of spring.
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In buskined measures move Pale Grief and pleasing Pain, With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast.
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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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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.
Thomas Gray
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We frolic while 'tis May.
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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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