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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=529403" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Ode On A Distant Prospect Of Eton College</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Ye distant spires, ye antique towers,<br>That crown the watry glade,<br>Where grateful ScienceÊ still adores<br>Her Henry'sÊ holy shade;<br>And yeÊ that from the stately brow<br>Of Windsor's height th' expanse below<br>Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey,<br>Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among<br>Wanders the hoary Thames along<br>His silver-winding way.				10</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Ah, happy hills, ah, pleasing shade,<br>Ah fields beloved in vain,<br>Where once my careless childhood strayed,<br>A stranger yet to pain!<br>I feel the gales, that from ye blow,<br>A momentary bliss bestow,<br>As waving fresh their gladsome wing,<br>My weary soul they seem to soothe,<br>And, redolent of youth,<br>To breathe a second spring.Ê			20</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Say, Father Thames, for thou hast seen<br>Full many a sprightly race<br>Disporting on thy margent green<br>The paths of pleasure trace,<br>Who foremost now delight to cleave<br>With pliant arm thy glassy wave?<br>The captive linnet which enthrall?<br>What idle progeny succeed<br>To chase the rolling circle's speed,<br>Or urge the flying ball?			30</div><div style="margin:10px 0">While some on earnest business bent<br>Their murm'ring laborsÊ play<br>'Gainst graver hours, that bring constraint<br>To sweeten liberty:<br>Some bold adventurers disdain<br>The limits of their little reign,<br>And unknown regions dare descry:<br>Still as they run they look behind,<br>And hear a voice in every wind,<br>And snatch a fearful joy.			40</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Gay hope is theirs by fancy fed, <br>Less pleasing when possessed;<br>The tear forgot as soon as shed,<br>The sunshine of the breast:<br>Theirs buxom health of rosy hue,<br>Wild wit, invention ever-new,<br>And lively cheer of vigor born;<br>The thoughtless day, the easy night,<br>The spirits pure, the slumbers light,<br>That fly th' approach of morn.			50</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Alas, regardless of their doom,<br>The little victims play!<br>No sense have they of ills to come,<br>Nor care beyond today:<br>Yet see how all around 'em wait<br>The ministers of human fate,<br>And black Misfortune's baleful train!<br>Ah, show them, where in ambush stand<br>To seize their prey the murth'rous band!<br>Ah, tell them, they are men!			60</div><div style="margin:10px 0">These shall the fury Passions tear,<br>The vultures of the mind,<br>Disdainful Anger, pallid Fear,<br>And Shame that skulks behind;<br>Or pining Love shall waste their youth,<br>Or Jealousy with rankling tooth, <br>That inly gnaws the secret heart,<br>And Envy wan, and faded Care,<br>Grim-visaged comfortless Despair,<br>And Sorrow's piercing dart.			70</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Ambition this shall tempt to rise,<br>Then whirl the wretch from high,<br>To bitter Scorn a sacrifice,<br>And grinning Infamy.<br>The stings of Falsehood those shall try,<br>And hard Unkindness's altered eye,<br>That mocks the tear it forced to flow;<br>And keen Remorse with blood defiled,<br>And moody Madness laughing wild<br>Amid severest woe.				80</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Lo, in the vale of years beneath<br>A grisly troop are seen,<br>The painful family of Death,<br>More hideous than their Queen:<br>This racks the joints, this fires the veins,<br>That every laboring sinew strains,<br>Those in the deeper vitals rage:<br>Lo, Poverty, to fill the band,<br>That numbs the soul with icy hand,<br>And slow-consuming Age.				90</div><div style="margin:10px 0">To each his suff'rings: all are men,<br>Condemned alike to groan;<br>The tender for another's pain,<br>Th' unfeeling for his own.<br>Yet ah! why should they know their fate?<br>Since sorrow never comes too late,<br>And happiness too swiftly flies.<br>Thought would destroy their paradise.<br>No more; where ignorance is bliss,<br>'Tis folly to be wise. (1742; pub. 1747) 	100</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Thomas+Gray">Thomas Gray</a><div class=q>
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That crown the watry glade,
Where grateful ScienceÊ still adores
Her Henry'sÊ holy shade;
And yeÊ that from the stately brow
Of Windsor's height th' expanse below
Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey,
Whose tu..."></div>
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