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

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When love could teach a monarch to be wise, And gospel-light first dawn'd from Bullen's eyes.
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To brisk notes in cadence beating, glance their many-twinkling feet.
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Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor.
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As to posterity, I may ask what has it ever done to oblige me?
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The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
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Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.
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Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
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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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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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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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Sweet is the breath of vernal shower,/ The bee's collected treasure sweet,/ Sweet music's melting fall, but sweeter yet/ The still small voice of gratitude.
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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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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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One principal characteristic of vice in the present age is the contempt of fame.
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Some bold adventurers disdain The limits of their little reign, And unknown regions date descry.
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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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To each his suff'rings all are men, Condemn'd alike to groan,- The tender for another's pain, Th' 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, 'T is folly to be wise.
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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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And truth severe, by fairy fiction drest.
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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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