Thomas Gray Quotes - Page 4

Gay hope is theirs by fancy fed, Less pleasing when possest; The tear forgot as soon as shed, The sunshine of the breast.

Sorrow's faded form, and solitude behind.

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.

Hands that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.

Bright-eyed Fancy, hov'ring o'er, Scatters from her pictured urn Thoughts that breathe and words that burn.

Her track, where'er the goddess roves, Glory pursue, and gen'rous shame, Th' unconquerable mind, and freedom's holy flame.

Ah, tell them they are men!

To Contemplation's sober eye. / Such is the race of Man.

And moody madness laughing wild Amid severest woe.

From Helicon's harmonious springs A thousand rills their mazy progress take.

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.

O'er her warm cheek, and rising bosom, move The bloom of young Desire and purple light of love.

And hie him home, at evening's close, To sweet repast and calm repose.

Where once my careless childhood strayed, / A stranger yet to pain.

To each his suff'rings: all are men, / Condemn'd alike to groan, / The tender for another's pain; / Th' unfeeling for his own.

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

To brisk notes in cadence beating, glance their many-twinkling feet.