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Scatter plenty o'er a smiling land.

Thomas Gray

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Thomas Gray
Age: 54 †
Born: 1716
Born: December 26
Died: 1771
Died: July 30
Literary Critic
Poet
London
England
Philanthropy
Smiling
Plenty
Charity
Land
Scatter
Philanthropic

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As to posterity, I may ask what has it ever done to oblige me?
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Thought would destroy their paradise.
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Ah, tell them they are men!
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How low, how little are the proud, How indigent the great!
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But knowledge to their eyes her ample page Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll Chill Penury repressed their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.
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Hands that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.
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The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
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Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray Along the cool sequester'd vale of life They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.
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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.
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Visions of glory, spare my aching sight! Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!
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The time will come, when thou shalt lift thine eyes To watch a long-drawn battle in the skies. While aged peasants, too amazed for words, Stare at the flying fleets of wondrous birds.
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Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed.
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To each his suff'rings: all are men, / Condemn'd alike to groan, / The tender for another's pain / Th' unfeeling for his own.
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Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
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Some bold adventurers disdain The limits of their little reign, And unknown regions date descry.
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Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch A broader browner shade Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech O'er-canopies the glade, Beside some water's rushy brink With me the Muse shall sit, and think.
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Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor.
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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?
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E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.
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Any fool may write a most valuable book by chance, if he will only tell us what he heard and saw with veracity.
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