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Alas, regardless of their doom, the little victims play! No sense have they of ills to come nor care beyond today.

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
Care
Alas
Littles
Parenting
Today
Victims
Little
Regardless
Come
Gray
Play
Victim
Ills
Children
Beyond
Parental
Sense
Doom

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Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes, Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart.
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And moody madness laughing wild Amid severest woe.
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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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Ah, happy hills! ah, pleasing shade! Ah, fields beloved in vain! Where once my careless childhood stray'd, A stranger yet to pain! I feel the gales that from ye blow A momentary bliss bestow.
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Along the cool sequestered vale of life, They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.
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We frolic while 'tis May.
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Scatter plenty o'er a smiling land.
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As to posterity, I may ask what has it ever done to oblige me?
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Full many a gem of purest ray serene, The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear.
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The different steps and degrees of education may be compared to the artificer's operations upon marble it is one thing to dig it out of the quarry, and another to square it, to give it gloss and lustre, call forth every beautiful spot and vein, shape it into a column, or animate it into a statue.
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To contemplation's sober eye, Such is the race of man And they that creep, and they that fly, Shall end where they began, Alike the busy and the gay, But flutter through life's little day.
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Fair laughs the morn, and soft the zephyr blows, While proudly rising o'er the azure realm In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes, Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm.
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T'was Spring, t'was Summer, all was gay Now Autumn bears a cloud brow The flowers of Spring are swept way And Summer fruits desert the bough
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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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Chill penury repress'd their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.
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And truth severe, by fairy fiction drest.
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Her track, where'er the goddess roves, Glory pursue, and gen'rous shame, Th' unconquerable mind, and freedom's holy flame.
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The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Awaits alike th' inevitable hour. The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
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How low, how little are the proud, How indigent the great!
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Not all that tempts your wandering eyes And heedless hearts, is lawful prize Nor all that glisters gold.
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