"The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Await alike the inevitable hour: The paths of glory lead but to the grave."

"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."

"For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or busy housewife ply her evening care: No children run to lisp their sire's return, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share."

"The breezy call of incense-breathing morn."

"Each in his narrow cell forever laid, The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep."

"Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r The moping owl does to the moon complain."

"Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds."

"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."

"Not all that tempts your wandering eyes And heedless hearts, is lawful prize; Nor all that glisters gold."

"No dolphin came, no Nereid stirred; Nor cruel Tom, nor Susan heard. A favourite has no friend!"

"What female heart can gold despise? What cat's averse to fish?"

"'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."

"To each his suff'rings: all are men, Condemn'd alike to groan, The tender for another's pain; Th' 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."

"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."

"Gray, who was at the head of those who by their reasonings have attempted to widen the space of separation betwixt Prose and Metrical composition, and was more than any other man curiously elaborate in the structure of his own poetic diction."

"After the manner of Gilbert White, who, unknown to the poet, was making similar observations at Selborne, Gray kept a calendar in which he noted the opening of flowers and the arrival of birds."

"Gray (who joins to the sublimity of Milton the elegance and harmony of Pope, and to whom nothing is wanting to render him, perhaps, the first poet in the English language, but to have written a little more), is said to have been so much hurt by a foolish and impertinent parody of two of his finest odes, that he never afterwards attempted any considerable work. Those men of letters who value themselves upon what is called fine writing in prose, approach somewhat to the sensibility of poets."

"Spenser was among his favourite poets; and he told me he never sat down to compose poetry without reading Spenser for a considerable time previously."

"Almost all his poetry was lyrical—that species which, issuing from a mind in the highest state of excitement, requires an intensity of feeling which for a long composition the genius of no poet could support. Those who complained of its brevity and rapidity only confessed their own inability to follow the movements of poetical inspiration. Of the two grand attributes of the Ode, Dryden had displayed the enthusiasm, Gray exhibited the magnificence. He is also the only modern English writer whose Latin verses deserve general notice; but we must lament that such difficult trifles had diverted his genius from its natural objects. In his letters he has shown the descriptive powers of a poet, and in new combinations of generally familiar words, which he seems to have caught from Madame de Sevigné (though it must be owned he was somewhat quaint), he was eminently happy. It may be added, that he deserves the comparatively trifling praise of having been the most learned poet since Milton."

"Of all English poets he was the most finished artist. He attained the highest degree of splendour of which poetical style seems to be capable, if Virgil and his scholar Racine may be allowed to have united somewhat more ease with their elegance, no other poet approaches Gray in this kind of excellence. The degree of poetical invention diffused over such a style, the balance of taste and of fancy necessary to produce it, and the art with which an offensive boldness of imagery is polished away, are not indeed always perceptible to the common reader, nor do they convey to any mind the same species of gratification which is felt from the perusal of those poems which seem to be the unpremeditated effusions of enthusiasm; but to the eye of the critic, and more especially to the artist, they afford a new kind of pleasure, not incompatible with a distinct perception of the art employed, and somewhat similar to the grand emotions excited by the reflection on the skill and toil exerted in the construction of a magnificent palace. They can only be classed among the secondary pleasures of poetry, but they never can exist without a great degree of its higher excellencies."

"Next day I dined with Johnson at Mr. Thrale's. He attacked Gray, calling him "a dull fellow." BOSWELL. "I understand he was reserved, and might appear dull in company; but surely he was not dull in poetry." JOHNSON. "Sir, he was dull in company, dull in his closet, dull in every where. He was dull in a new way, and that made many people think him GREAT. He was a mechanical poet." He then repeated some ludicrous lines, which have escaped my memory, and said "Is not that GREAT, like his Odes?""

"Gray thought his language more poetical as it was more remote from common use."

"Too poor for a bribe, and too proud to importune, He had not the method of making a fortune."

"Iron sleet of arrowy shower Hurtles in the darkened air."

"Now my weary lips I close; Leave me, leave me to repose!"

"Where his glowing eye−balls turn, Thousand banners round him burn. Where he points his purple spear, Hasty, hasty Rout is there, Marking with indignant eye Fear to stop and shame to fly. There Confusion, Terror's child, Conflict fierce and Ruin wild, Agony that pants for breath, Despair and honourable Death."

"In glittering arms and glory dressed, High he rears his ruby crest. There the thundering strokes begin, There the press and there the din; Talymalfra's rocky shore Echoing to the battle's roar."

"What sorrow was, thou bad'st her know, And from her own she learned to melt at others' woe."

"Daughter of Jove, relentless power, Thou tamer of the human breast, Whose iron scourge and tort'ring hour The bad affright, afflict the best!"

"T'was Spring, t'was Summer, all was gay Now Autumn bears a cloud brow The flowers of Spring are swept way And Summer fruits desert the bough"

"And moody madness laughing wild Amid severest woe."

"Grim-visaged comfortless Despair."

"Ah, tell them they are men!"

"Alas, regardless of their doom, The little victims play! No sense have they of ills to come, Nor care beyond today."

"Gay hope is theirs by fancy fed, Less pleasing when possest; The tear forgot as soon as shed, The sunshine of the breast."

"Still as they run they look behind, They hear a voice in every wind, And snatch a fearful joy."

"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."

"Ye distant spires, ye antique towers, That crown the wat'ry glade."

"Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate, Beneath the good how far,—but far above the great."

"Hark, his hands the lyre explore! Bright-eyed Fancy hovering o'er Scatters from her pictured urn Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn."

"He passed the flaming bounds of place and time: The living throne, the sapphire-blaze, Where angels tremble, while they gaze, He saw; but blasted with excess of light, Closed his eyes in endless night."

"Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic tears."

"Far from the sun and summer-gale, In thy green lap was Nature's Darling laid."

"Her track, where'er the goddess roves, Glory pursue, and gen'rous shame, Th' unconquerable mind, 3 and freedom's holy flame."

"O'er her warm cheek and rising bosom move The bloom of young Desire and purple light of Love."

"Glance their many-twinkling feet."

"From Helicon's harmonious springs A thousand rills their mazy progress take."

"And hie him home, at evening's close, To sweet repast and calm repose."

"See the wretch that long has tost On the thorny bed of pain, At length repair his vigour lost, And breathe and walk again: The meanest floweret of the vale, The simplest note that swells the gale, The common sun, the air, the skies, To him are opening paradise."

"Behind the steps that Misery treads Approaching Comfort view: The hues of bliss more brightly glow Chastised by sabler tints of woe, And blended form, with artful strife, The strength and harmony of life."