Thomas Gray (1716 – 1771)
English poet, classical scholar, and professor of history at Cambridge University.
Hands, that the rod of empire might have swayed,
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.
The Curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea,
The plowman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
Still as they run they look behind,
They hear a voice in every wind,
And snatch a fearful joy.
What female heart can gold despise?
What cat's averse to fish?
One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill,
Along the heath, and near his fav'rite tree:
Another came; nor yet beside the rill,
Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he.
E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,
E'en in our Ashes live their wonted Fires.
No farther seek his merits to disclose,
Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,
(There they alike in trembling hope repose,)
The bosom of his Father and his God.
Brushing with hasty steps the dews away,
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.
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.
I shall be but a shrimp of an author.
Ye distant spires, ye antique towers,
That crown the wat'ry glade.
While bright-eyed Science watches round.
Daughter of Jove, relentless power,
Thou tamer of the human breast,
Whose iron scourge and tort'ring hour
The bad affright, afflict the best!
The breezy call of incense-breathing morn.
Far from the sun and summer-gale,
In thy green lap was Nature's Darling laid.
The social smile, the sympathetic tear.
Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast
The little Tyrant of his fields withstood;
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,
Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood.
'Twas on a lofty vase's side,
Where China's gayest art had dyed
The azure flowers, that blow;
Demurest of the tabby kind,
The pensive Selima reclined,
Gazed on the lake below.
Ruin seize thee, ruthless King!
Confusion on thy banners wait,
Though fanned by Conquest's crimson wing
They mock the air with idle state.
Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile,
The short and simple annals of the poor.