Quote

The applause of list'ning 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.

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
Read
Plenty
Smiling
Pain
Historical
Ruin
History
Threat
Despise
Nation
Senate
Land
List
Ning
Eyes
Ruins
Scatter
Nations
Lists
Threats
Eye
Command
Applause

More quotes by Thomas Gray

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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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Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
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Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed.
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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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Along the cool sequestered vale of life, They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.
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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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Ah, tell them they are men!
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Full many a gem of purest ray serene, The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear.
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The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
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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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Hands that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.
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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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Chill penury repress'd 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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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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Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor.
Thomas Gray
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Some bold adventurers disdain The limits of their little reign, And unknown regions date descry.
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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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To brisk notes in cadence beating, glance their many-twinkling feet.
Thomas Gray