Thomas Gray[77/6-/77/]Elegy(Written in a Country Churchyard)
¶THE curfew tolls the knell of parting day,The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea,[444]The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
¶Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,And all the air a solemn stillness holds,Save where the beede wheels his droning flight,And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds:
¶Save that from yonder ivy-mantled towerThe moping owl does to the moon complainOf such as, wandering near her secret bower,Molest her ancient solitary reign.
¶Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shadeWhere heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap,Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
¶The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed,The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.
¶For them no more the blazing hearth shall burnOr busy housewife ply her evening care:No children run to lisp their sire's return,Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.
¶Of t did the harvest to their sickle yield,Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke;How jocund did they drive their team afield!How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!
¶Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smileThe short and simple annals of the Poor.
¶The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gaveAwaits alike th' inevitable hour:—The paths of glory lead but to the grave.[445]Nor you, ye Proud, impute to these the faultIf Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise,Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vaultThe pealing anthem swells the note of praise.
¶Can storied urn or animated bustBack to its mansion call the fleeting breath,Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust,Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of Death ?
¶Perhaps in this neglected spot is laidSome heart once pregnant with celestial fire;Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd,Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre:
¶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.
¶Full many age m of purest ray sereneThe dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear:Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,And waste its sweetness on the desert air.
¶Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breastThe little tyrant of his fields withstood,Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood.
¶T h ' applause of listening senates to command,The threats of pain and ruin to despise,To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,And read their history in a nation's eyes
¶Their lot forbad: nor circumscribed aloneTheir growing virtues, but their crimes confined;Forbad to wade through slaughter to a throne,And shut the gates of mercy on mankind;[446]The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,Or heap the shrine of Luxury and PrideWith incense kindled at the Muse's flame.
¶Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strifeTheir sober wishes never learn'd to stray;Along the cool sequester'd vale of lifeThey kept the noiseless tenour of their way.
¶Yet e'en these bones from insult to protectSome frail memorial still erected nigh,With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd,Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
¶Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd Muse,The place of fame and elegy supply:And many a holy text around she strews,That teach the rustic moralist to die.
¶For 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 lingering look behind?
¶On some fond breast the parting soul relies,Some pious drops the closing eye requires;E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.
¶For thee, who , mindful of th' unhonour'd dead,Dost in these lines their ardess tale relate;If chance, by lonely Contemplation led,Some kindred spirit shall enquire thy fate,—
¶Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,'Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawnBrushing with hasty steps the dews away,To meet the sun upon the upland lawn;[447]'There at the foot of yonder nodding beechThat wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,His listless length at noon-tide would he stretch,And pore upon the brook that babbles by.
¶'Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove;Now drooping, woeful-wan, like one forlorn,Or crazed with care, or cross'd in hopeless love.
¶'One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill,Along the heath, and near his favourite tree;Another came; nor yet beside the rill,Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;
¶' The next with dirges due in sad array [borne,—Slow through the church-way path we saw himApproach and read (for thou canst read) the layGraved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn:'
The EpitaphHere rests his head upon the lap of EarthA youth, to Fortune and to Fame unknown;Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birthAnd Melancholy marled him for her own.Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere;Heaven did a recompense as largely send:
¶He gave to Mis'ry all he had, a tear,
He gain'd from Heaven, 'twas all he wish'd, a friend.
¶No farther see\ his merits to disclose,
Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,{There they alike in trembling hope repose,)The bosom of his Father and his God.Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton College
¶YE distant spires, ye antique towers,That crown the watery glade,Where grateful Science still adores[448]Her Henry's holy shade;And ye, that from the stately browOf Windsor's heights th' expanse belowOf grove, of lawn, of mead survey.Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers amongWanders the hoary Thames alongHis silver-winding way:
¶Ah happy hills! ah pleasing shade!Ah fields beloved in vain!When once my careless childhood stray'd,A stranger yet to pain!I feel the gales that from ye blowA momentary bliss bestow,As waving fresh their gladsome wingMy weary soul they seem to sootheAnd, redolent of joy and youth,To breathe a second spring.
¶Say, Father Thames, for thou hast seenFull many a sprightly raceDisporting on thy margent greenThe paths of pleasure trace;Who foremost now delight to cleaveWith pliant arm, thy glassy wave?The captive linnet which enthral?What idle progeny succeedTo chase the rolling circle's speedOr urge the flying ball ?
¶While some on earnest business bentTheir murmuring labours ply'Gainst graver hours, that bring constraintTo sweeten liberty:Some bold adventurers disdainThe limits of their little reignAnd unknown regions dare descry:Still as they run they look behind.They hear a voice in every wind,And snatch a fearful joy.[449]Gay Hope is theirs by fancy fed.Less pleasing when possest;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 thoughdess day, the easy night.The spirits pure, the slumbers lightThat fly th' approach of morn.
¶Alas! regardless of their doomThe little victims play!No sense have they of ills to comeNor care beyond to-day:Yet see how all around 'em waitThe ministers of human fateAnd black Misfortune's baleful train!Ah shew them where in ambush standTo seize their prey, the murderous 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 sculks behind;Or pining Love shall waste their youth,Or Jealousy with rankling toothThat 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 highTo bitter Scorn a sacrificeAnd grinning Infamy.The stings of Falsehood those shall tryAnd hard Unkindness' alter'd eye.That mocks the tear it forced to flow;[450]And keen Remorse with blood defiled,And moody Madness laughing wildAmid severest woe.
¶Lo , in the Vale of Years beneathA griesly 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,Condemn ' d alike to groan;The tender for another's pain,T h ' 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.
Hymn to Adversity
¶DAUGHTER of Jove, relendess power,Thou tamer of the human breast,Whose iron scourge and torturing hourThe bad affright, afflict the best!Bound in thy adamantine chainThe proud are taught to taste of pain,And purple tyrants vainly groanWith pangs unfelt before, unpitied and alone.
¶When first thy Sire to send on earthVirtue, his darling child, design'd,To thee he gave the heavenly birthAnd bade to form her infant mind.[451]Stern, rugged Nurse! thy rigid loreWith patience many a year she bore;What sorrow was, thou bad'st her know ,And from her own she learn'd to melt at others' woe.
¶Scared at thy frown terrific, flySelf-pleasing Folly's idle brood,Wild Laughter, Noise, and thoughtless Joy,And leave us leisure to be good.Light they disperse, and with them goThe summer Friend, the flattering Foe;By vain Prosperity received,To her they vow their truth, and are again believed.
¶Wisdom in sable garb array'dImmersed in rapturous thought profound,And Melancholy, silent maid,With leaden eye, that loves the ground,Still on thy solemn steps attend:Warm Charity, the general friend,With Justice, to herself severe,And Pity dropping soft the sadly-pleasing tear.
¶O ! gently on thy suppliant's headDread Goddess, lay thy chastening hand!Not in thy Gorgon terrors clad,Nor circled with the vengeful band( As by the impious thou art seen)With thundering voice, and threatening mien,With screaming Horror's funeral cry,Despair, and fell Disease, and ghastly Poverty;—
¶Thy form benign, O Goddess, wear,Thy milder influence impart,Thy philosophic train be there.To soften, not to wound my heart.The generous spark extinct revive,Teach me to love and to forgiveExact my own defects to scan,What others are to feel, and know myself a Man .[452]288 Ode on the Spring
¶Lo! where the rosy-bosom'd Hours,Fair Venus' train, appear,Disclose the long-expecting flowersAnd wake the purple year!The Attic warbler pours her throatResponsive to the cuckoo's note,The untaught harmony of Spring:While, whispering pleasure as they fly,Cool Zephyrs thro' the clear blue skyTheir gather'd fragrance fling.
¶Where'er the oak's thick branches stretchA broader, browner shade.Where'er the rude and moss-grown beechO'er-canopies the glade,Beside some water's rushy brinkWith me the Muse shall sit, and think(At ease reclined in rustic state)How vain the ardour of the Crowd,How low, how little are the Proud,How indigent the Great!
¶Still is the toiling hand of Care;The panting herds repose:Yet hark, how thro' the peopled airThe busy murmur glows!The insect youth are on the wing,Eager to taste the honied springAnd float amid the liquid noon:Some lightly o'er the current skim.Some show their gaily-gilded trimQuick-glancing to the sun.
¶To Contemplation's sober eyeSuch is the race of Man:And they that creep, and they that flyShall end where they began.Alike the busy and the gay[453]But flutter thro' life's little day,In Fortune's varying colours drest:Brush'd by the hand of rough Mischance,Or chill'd by Age , their airy danceThey leave, in dust to rest.
¶Methinks I hear in accents lowThe sportive kind reply:Poor moralist! and what art thou?A solitary fly!Thy joys no glittering female meets,No hive hast thou of hoarded sweets,No painted plumage to display:On hasty wings thy youth is flown;Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone —We frolic while 'tis May .
The Progress of PoesyA Pindaric Ode
¶AWAKE, Aeolian lyre, awake,And give to rapture all thy trembling strings.From Helicon's harmonious springsA thousand rills their mazy progress take:The laughing flowers that round them blowDrink life and fragrance as they flow.Now the rich stream of Music winds alongDeep, majestic, smooth, and strong,Through verdant vales, and Ceres' golden reign;Now rolling down the steep amainHeadlong, impetuous, see it pour:The rocks and nodding groves re-bellow to the roar
¶O Sovereign of the willing soul,Parent of sweet and solemn-breathing airs,Enchanting shell! the sullen CaresAnd frantic Passions hear thy soft control.On Thracia's hills the Lord of WarHas curb'd the fury of his carAnd dropt his thirsty lance at thy command.[454]Perching on the sceptred handOf Jove, thy magic lulls the feather'd kingWith ruffled plumes, and flagging wing:Quench'd in dark clouds of slumber lieThe terror of his beak, and lightnings of his eye.
¶Thee the voice, the dance, obeyTemper'd to thy warbled lay.O'er Idalia's velvet-greenThe rosy-crowned Loves are seenOn Cytherea's day,With antic Sport, and blue-eyed Pleasures,Frisking light in frolic measures;Now pursuing, now retreating,Now in circling troops they meet:To brisk notes in cadence beatingGlance their many-twinkling feet.Slow melting strains their Queen's approach declare:Where'er she turns, the Graces homage pay:With arms sublime that float upon the airIn gliding state she wins her easy way:O'er her warm cheek and rising bosom moveThe bloom of young Desire and purple light of Love.
¶Man's feeble race what ills await!Labour, and Penury, the racks of Pain,Disease, and Sorrow's weeping train,And Death, sad refuge from the storms of Fate!The fond complaint, my song, disprove,And justify the laws of Jove.Say, has he given in vain the heavenly MuseNight , and all her sickly dews,Her spectres w an , and birds of boding cryHe gives to range the dreary sky:Till down the eastern cliffs afarHyperion's march they spy, and glittering shafts of war.
¶In climes beyond the solar roadWhere shaggy forms o'er ice-built mountains roam,The Muse has broke the twilight gloom[455]To cheer the shivering native's dull abode.And oft, beneath the odorous shadeOf Chili's boundless forests laid,She deigns to hear the savage youth repeatIn loose numbers wildly sweetTheir feather-cinctured chiefs, and dusky loves.Her track, where'er the Goddess roves,Glory pursue, and generous Shame,Th' unconquerable Mind, and Freedom's holy flame.
¶Woods, that wave o'er Delphi's steep.Isles, that crown th' Aegean deep.Fields that cool Ilissus laves.Or where Maeander's amber wavesIn lingering lab'rinths creep.How do your tuneful echoes languish,Mute, but to the voice of anguish!Where each old poetic mountainInspiration breathed around;Every shade and hallow'd fountainMurmur'd deep a solemn sound:Till the sad Nine, in Greece's evil hourLeft their Parnassus for the Latian plains.Alike they scorn the pomp of tyrant Power,And coward Vice, that revels in her chains.When Latium had her lofty spirit lost,They sought, O Albion! next, thy sea-encircled coast.
¶Far from the sun and summer-galeIn thy green lap was Nature's Darling laid,What time, where lucid Avon stray'd,To him the mighty Mother did unveilHer awful face: the dauntless ChildStretch'd forth his little arms, and smiled.This pencil take (she said), whose colours dearRichly paint the vernal year:Thine, too, these golden keys, immortal Boy!This can unlock the gates of Joy;Of Horror that, and thrilling Fears,Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic Tears.[456]Nor second He , that rode sublimeUpon the seraph-wings of EcstasyThe secrets of the Abyss to spy:He pass'd the flaming bounds of Place and Time :The living Throne , the sapphire-blazeWhere Angels tremble while they gaze,He saw; but blasted with excess of light,Closed his eyes in endless night.Behold where Dryden's less presumptuous carWide o'er the fields of Glory bearTwo coursers of ethereal race,With necks in thunder clothed, and long-resounding pace.
¶Hark , his hands the lyre explore!Bright-eyed Fancy, hovering o'er,Scatters from her pictured urnThoughts that breathe, and words that burn.But ah! 'tis heard no more—Oh ! Lyre divine, what daring SpiritWakes thee now! Tho ' h e inheritNor the pride, nor ample pinion,That the Theban Eagle bear,Sailing with supreme dominionThro ' the azure deep of air:Yet oft before his infant eyes would runSuch forms as glitter in the Muse's rayWith orient hues, unborrow'd of the sun:Yet shall he mount, and keep his distant wayBeyond the limits of a vulgar fate:Beneath the Good how far—but far above the Great.
The BardPindaric Ode
¶'RUIN seize thee, ruthless King !Confusion on thy banners wait!Tho ' fann'd by Conquest's crimson wingThey mock the air with idle state.Helm , nor hauberk's twisted mailNor e'en thy virtues, tyrant, shall avail[457]To save thy secret soul from nightly fears,From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears!'— Such were the sounds that o'er the crested prideOf the first Edward scatter'd wild dismay,As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy sideHe wound with toilsome march his long array:—Stout Glo'ster stood aghast in speechless trance;' T o arms!' cried Mortimer, and couch'd his quiveringlance.
¶On a rock, whose haughty browFrowns o'er old Conway ' s foaming flood,Robed in the sable garb of woeWith haggard eyes the Poet stood;(Loose his beard and hoary hairStream'd like a meteor to the troubled air)And with a master's hand and prophet's fireStruck the deep sorrows of his lyre:'Hark, how each giant-oak and desert-caveSighs to the torrent's awful voice beneath!O'er thee, O King ! their hundred arms they waveRevenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe;Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day,To high-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llewellyn's lay.
¶'Cold is Cadwallo's tongue,That hush'd the stormy main:Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed:Mountains, ye mourn in vainModred, whose magic songMade huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topt head.On dreary Arvon's shore they lieSmear'd with gore and ghastly pale:Far, far aloof the affrighted ravens sail;The famish'd eagle screams, and passes by.Dear lost companions of my tuneful art,Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes,Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart,Ye died amidst your dying country's cries—No more I weep; They do not sleep;[458]On yonder cliffs, a griesly band,I see them sit; They linger yet,Avengers of their native land:With me in dreadful harmony they join,And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line.'
¶Weave the warp and weave the woofThe winding sheet of Edward's race:Give ample room and verge enoughThe characters of hell to trace.Mark the year, and mark the night,When Severn shall re-echo with affrightThe shrieks of death thro' Berkley's roof that ring,Shrieks of an agonizing king !She-wolf of France, with unrelenting fangsThat tear'st the bowels of thy mangled mate,From thee be born, who o'er thy country hangsThe scourge of Heaven! What terrors round him waitAmazement in his van, with Flight combined,And Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude behind.
¶'Mighty victor, mighty lord,Low on his funeral couch he lies!No pitying heart, no eye, affordA tear to grace his obsequies.Is the sable warrior fled?Thy son is gone. He rests among the dead.The swarm that in thy noon-tide beam were born?— Gone to salute the rising morn.Fair laughs the Morn , and soft the zephyr blows,While proudly riding o'er the azure realmIn gallant trim the gilded Vessel goes:Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm:Regardless of the sweeping Whirlwind's sway,That hush'd in grim repose expects his evening prey.
¶'Fill high the sparkling bowl,The rich repast prepare;Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast:Close by the regal chair[459]Fell Thirst and Famine scowlA baleful smile upon their baffled guest.Heard ye the din of battle bray.Lance to lance, and horse to horse?Long years of havock urge their destined course,And thro' the kindred squadrons mow their way.Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame,With many a foul and midnight murder fed,Revere his,Consort's faith, his Father's fame,And spare the meek usurper's holy head!Above, below, the rose of snow.Twined with her blushing foe, we spread:The bristled boar in infant-goreWallows beneath the thorny shade.Now, brothers, bending o'er the accursed loom,Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom.
¶'Edward, lo! to sudden fate(Weave we the woof; The thread is spun;)Half of thy heart we consecrate.(The web is wove; The work is done.)—Stay, oh stay! nor thus forlornLeave me unbless'd, unpitied, here to mourn:In yon bright track that fires the western skiesThey melt, they vanish from my eyes.But O! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's heightDescending slow their glittering skirts unroll.?Visions of glory, spare my aching sight.Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail:—All hail, ye genuine kings! Britannia's issue, hail!
¶'Girt with many a baron boldSublime their starry fronts they rear;And gorgeous dames, and statesmen oldIn bearded majesty, appear.In the midst a form divine!Her eye proclaims her of the Briton-Line:Her lion-port, her awe-commanding faceAttemper'd sweet to virgin-grace.[460]What strings symphonious tremble in the air,What strains of vocal transport round her play?Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear;They breathe a soul to animate thy clay.Bright Rapture calls, and soaring as she sings,Waves in the eye of Heaven her many-coloured wings.
¶The verse adorn againFierce War , and faithful Love ,And Truth severe, by fairy Fiction drest.In buskin'd measures movePale Grief, and pleasing Pain,With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast.A voice as of the cherub-choirGales from blooming Eden bear,And distant warblings lessen on my earThat lost in long futurity expire.Fond impious man, think'st thou yon sanguine cloudRaised by thy breath, has quench'd the orb of day ?To - morrow he repairs the golden floodAnd warms the nations with redoubled ray.Enough for me : with joy I seeThe different doom-our fates assign:Be thine Despair and sceptred Care,To triumph and to die are mine.'— He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's heightDeep in the roaring tide he plunged to endless night.
Ode on the Pleasure Arising from Vicissitude
¶Now the golden Morn aloftWaves her dew-bespangled wing ,With vermeil cheek and whisper softShe woos the tardy Spring:Till April starts, and calls aroundThe sleeping fragrance from the ground,And lightly o'er the living sceneScatters his freshest, tenderest green.
¶New - born flocks, in rustic dance,Frisking ply their feeble feet;[461]Forgetful of their wintry tranceThe birds his presence greet:But chief, the sky-lark warbles highHis trembling thrilling ecstasy;And lessening from the dazzled sight,Melts into air and liquid light.
¶Yesterday the sullen yearSaw the snowy whirlwind fly;Mute was the music of the air,The herd stood drooping by;Their raptures now that wildly flowNo yesterday nor morrow know;'Tis Man alone that joy descriesWith forward and reverted eyes.
¶Smiles on past Misfortune's browSoft Reflection's hand can trace.And o'er the cheek of Sorrow throwA melancholy grace;While Hope prolongs our happier hour.Or deepest shades, that dimly lourAnd blacken round our weary way.Gilds with a gleam of distant day.
¶Still, where rosy Pleasure leads,See a kindred Grief pursue;Behind the steps that Misery treadsApproaching Comfort view:The hues of bliss more brighdy glowChastised by sabler tints of woe,And blended form, with artful strife.The strength and harmony of life.
¶See the wretch that long has tostOn the thorny bed of pain.At length repair his vigour lostAnd breathe and walk again:The meanest floweret of the vale.The simplest note that swells the gale.[462]The common sun, the air, the skies,To him are opening Paradise.
¶'TwAs on a lofty vase's side,Where China's gayest art had dyedThe azure flowers that blow.Demurest of the tabby kindThe pensive Selima, reclined,Gazed on the lake below.
¶Her conscious tail her joy declared:The fair round face, the snowy beard.The velvet of her paws,Her coat that with the tortoise vies,Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes—She saw, and purr'd applause.
¶Still had she gazed, but 'midst the tideTwo angel forms were seen to glide,The Genii of the stream:Their scaly armour's Tyrian hueThrough richest purple, to the viewBetray'd a golden gleam.
¶The hapless Nymph with wonder saw:A whisker first, and then a clawWith many an ardent wishShe stretch'd, in vain, to reach the prize—What female heart can gold despise ?What Cat's averse to fish?
¶Presumptuous maid! with looks intentAgain she stretch'd, again she bent.Nor knew the gulf between—Malignant Fate sat by and smiled—■The slippery verge her feet beguiled;She tumbled headlong in![463]Eight times emerging from the floodShe mew'd to every watery GodSome speedy aid to send:—No Dolphin came, no Nereid stirr'd.Nor cruel To m nor Susan heard—A favourite has no friend!
¶From hence, ye Beauties! undeceivedKnow one false step is ne'er retrieved,And be with caution bold:Not all that tempts your wandering eyesAnd heedless hearts, is lawful prize,Nor all that glisters, gold!