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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
Indigent
Lows
Proud
Littles
Little
Great

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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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E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.
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Full many a gem of purest ray serene, The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear.
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From toil he wins his spirits light, From busy day the peaceful night Rich, from the very want of wealth, In heaven's best treasures, peace and health.
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The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
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I shall be but a shrimp of an author.
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As to posterity, I may ask what has it ever done to oblige me?
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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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O'er her warm cheek, and rising bosom, move The bloom of young Desire and purple light of love.
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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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Sweet is the breath of vernal shower,/ The bee's collected treasure sweet,/ Sweet music's melting fall, but sweeter yet/ The still small voice of gratitude.
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Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch A broader browner shade Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech O'er-canopies the glade, Beside some water's rushy brink With me the Muse shall sit, and think.
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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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T'was Spring, t'was Summer, all was gay Now Autumn bears a cloud brow The flowers of Spring are swept way And Summer fruits desert the bough
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Chill penury repress'd their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.
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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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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?
Thomas Gray
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Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
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Thought would destroy their paradise.
Thomas Gray
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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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