Thomas Graywas an English poet, letter-writer, classical scholar and professor at Pembroke College, Cambridge University. He is widely known for his Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard, published in 1751... (wikipedia)
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.
The hues of bliss more brightly glow, Chastis'd by sabler tints of woe.
We frolic while 'tis May.
Sorrow's faded form, and solitude behind.
One principal characteristic of vice in the present age is the contempt of fame.
The insect-youth are on the wing, Eager to taste the honied spring, And float amid the liquid noon!
Man's feeble race what ills await! Labour, and Penury, the racks of Pain, Disease, and Sorrow's weeping train, And Death, sad refuge from the storms of Fate!
The Attic warbler pours her throat, Responsive to the cuckoo's note, The untaught harmony of spring.
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.
Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife.
Low on his funeral couch he lies!
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.
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.
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?
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.
When love could teach a monarch to be wise, And gospel-light first dawn'd from Bullen's eyes.
Where once my careless childhood strayed, / A stranger yet to pain.
The language of the age is never the language of poetry, except among the French, whose verse, where the thought or image does not support it, differs in nothing from prose.
To each his suff'rings: all are men, / Condemn'd alike to groan, / The tender for another's pain; / Th' unfeeling for his own.
England, so long mistress of the sea, Where winds and waves confess her sovereignty, Her ancient triumphs yet on high shall bear And reign the sovereign of the conquered air.
Visions of glory, spare my aching sight! Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!
Full many a gem of purest ray serene The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear: Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air.
A fav'rite has no friend!
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?