| 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 |
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[ 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 .. ] |
