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Visions of glory, spare my aching sight! Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!

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
Sight
Aching
Glory
Unborn
Vision
Visions
Age
Spare
Soul
Spares
Ages
Crowd
Crowds

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One principal characteristic of vice in the present age is the contempt of fame.
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Scatter plenty o'er a smiling land.
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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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Chill penury repress'd their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.
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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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Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes, Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart.
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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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Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor.
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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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I shall be but a shrimp of an author.
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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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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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Ah, tell them they are men!
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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.
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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 paths of glory lead but to the grave.
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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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Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
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Full many a gem of purest ray serene, The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear.
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