Ye distant spires, ye antique towers, |
That crown the watery glade, |
Where grateful Science still adores |
Her Henry’s holy shade; |
And ye that from the stately brow |
Of Windsor’s heights the expanse below |
Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey, |
Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers
among |
Wanders the hoary Thames along |
His silver-winding way.
|
Ah, happy hills, ah, pleasing shade, |
Ah, fields beloved in vain, |
Where once my careless childhood strayed, |
A stranger yet to pain ! |
I feel the gales, that from ye blow, |
A momentary bliss bestow, |
As waving fresh their gladsome wing, |
My weary soul they seem to soothe, |
And, redolent of joy and youth, |
To breathe a second spring.
|
Say, Father Thames, for thou hast seen |
Full many a sprightly race |
Disporting on thy margent green |
The paths of pleasure trace, |
Who foremost now delight to cleave |
With pliant arm thy glassy wave ? |
The captive linnet which enthrall ? |
What idle progeny succeed |
To chase the rolling circle’s speed, |
Or urge the flying ball ?
|
While some on earnest business bent |
Their murmuring labours ply |
’Gainst graver hours, that bring constraint |
To sweeten liberty : |
Some bold adventurers disdain |
The limits of their little reign, |
And unknown regions dare descry : |
Still as they run they look behind, |
They hear a voice in every wind, |
And snatch a fearful joy.
|
Gay hope is theirs by fancy fed, |
Less pleasing when possessed ; |
The tear forgot as soon as shed, |
The sunshine of the breast : |
Theirs buxom health of rosy hue, |
Wild wit, invention ever-new, |
And lively cheer of vigour born ; |
The thoughtless day, the easy night, |
The spirits pure, the slumbers light, |
That fly the approach of morn.
|
Alas, regardless of their doom, |
The little victims play ! |
No sense have they of ills to come, |
Nor care beyond today : |
Yet see how all around ’em wait |
The ministers of human fate. |
And black Misfortune’s baleful train ! |
Ah, show them where in ambush stand |
To seize their prey the murtherous band ! |
Ah, tell them, they are men !
|
These shall the fury Passions tear, |
The vultures of the mind, |
Disdainful Anger, pallid Fear, |
And Shame that skulks behind ; |
Or pining Love shall waste their youth, |
Or Jealousy with rankling tooth, |
That inly gnaws the secret heart, |
And Envy wan, and faded Care, |
Grim-visaged comfortless Despair, |
And Sorrow’s piercing dart.
|
Ambition this shall tempt to rise, |
Then whirl the wretch from high, |
To bitter Scorn a sacrifice, |
And grinning Infamy. |
The stings of Falsehood those shall try, |
And hard Unkindness’ altered eye, |
That mocks the tear it forced to flow ; |
And keen Remorse with blood defiled, |
And moody Madness laughing wild |
Amid severest woe.
|
Lo, in the vale of years beneath |
A grisly troop are seen, |
The painful family of Death, |
More hideous than their Queen : |
This racks the joints, this fires the
veins, |
That every labouring sinew strains, |
Those in the deeper vitals rage : |
Lo, Poverty, to fill the band, |
That numbs the soul with icy hand, |
And slow-consuming Age.
|
To each his sufferings: all are men, |
Condemned alike to groan ; |
The tender for another’s pain, |
The 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, |
’Tis folly to be wise.
|
Thomas Gray |
Classic Poems |
|
[ Elegy Written In a Country Churchyard ] [ Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton College ] [ The Bard ] [ On the Death of Richard West ] [ Ode on the Death of a Favourite Cat .. ] |