James Wood, comp. Dictionary of Quotations. 1899.
Gray
Along the cool sequester’d vale of life / They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.
Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree’s shade, / Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, / Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, / The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
Blasted with excess of light.
Can storied urn or animated bust / Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? / Can honour’s voice provoke the silent dust, / Or flattery soothe the dull cold ear of death?
E’en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, / E’en in our ashes live their wonted fires.
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, / The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
Far from the madding crowd’s ignoble strife, / Their sober wishes never learned to stray; / Along the cool sequester’d vale of life / They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.
For who to dumb forgetfulness a prey, / This pleasing anxious being e’er resigned, / Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, / Nor cast one longing lingering look behind?
From Helicon’s harmonious springs / A thousand rills their mazy progress take.
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.
Gay hope is theirs by fancy fed, / Less pleasing when possest; / The tear forgot as soon as shed, / The sunshine of the breast.
Give ample room and verge enough.
Hands that the rod of empire might have sway’d, / Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.
In every rank, or great or small, / ’Tis industry supports us all.
Knowledge to their eyes her ample page, / Rich with the spoils of time, did ne’er unroll; / Chill penury repress’d their noble rage, / And froze the genial current of the soul.
Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast / The little tyrant of his fields withstood, / Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, / Some Cromwell guiltless of his country’s blood.
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.
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
The short and simple annals of the poor.
Thoughts that breathe and words that burn.
Where ignorance is bliss, / ’Tis folly to be wise.
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?