Thomas Gray

Weave the warp, and weave the woof, The winding-sheet of Edward's race. Give ample room and verge enough The characters of hell to trace.

And weep the more, because I weep in vain.

Any fool may write a most valuable book by chance, if he will only tell us what he heard and saw with veracity.

And moody madness laughing wild Amid severest woe.

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.

But 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.

Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor.

Rich windows that exclude the light, And passages that lead to nothing.

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?

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