Thomas Gray (1716 – 1771)
English poet, classical scholar, and professor of history at Cambridge University.
No dolphin came, no Nereid stirred;
Nor cruel Tom, nor Susan heard.
A favourite has no friend!
Loose his beard, and hoary hair
Stream'd like a meteor to the troubled air.
Glance their many-twinkling feet.
Iron sleet of arrowy shower
Hurtles in the darkened air.
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.
Bright-eyed Fancy, hov'ring o'er,
Scatters from her pictured urn
Thoughts that breathe and words that burn.
And hie him home, at evening's close,
To sweet repast and calm repose.
Hands, that the rod of empire might have swayed,
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.
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?
When love could teach a monarch to be wise,
And gospel-light first dawn'd from Bullen's eyes.
O'er her warm cheek and rising bosom move
The bloom of young Desire and purple light of Love.
Not all that tempts your wandering eyes
And heedless hearts, is lawful prize;
Nor all that glisters gold.
Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r
The moping owl does to the moon complain.
Sweet is the breath of vernal shower,
The bee's collected treasures sweet,
Sweet music's melting fall, but sweeter yet
The still small voice of gratitude.
Ah, tell them they are men!
The verse adorn again
Fierce War, and faithful Love,
And Truth severe, by fairy Fiction drest.