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

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The Attic warbler pours her throat, Responsive to the cuckoo's note, The untaught harmony of spring.
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To brisk notes in cadence beating, glance their many-twinkling feet.
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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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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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The hues of bliss more brightly glow, Chastis'd by sabler tints of woe.
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Along the cool sequestered vale of life, They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.
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The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
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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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Thought would destroy their paradise.
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For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing ling'ring look behind?
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Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, Heaven did a recompense as largely send: He gave to mis'ry (all he had) a tear, He gained from Heav'n ('t was all he wish'd) a friend.
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Chill penury repress'd their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.
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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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One principal characteristic of vice in the present age is the contempt of fame.
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Full many a gem of purest ray serene, The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear.
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Visions of glory, spare my aching sight! Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!
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Ah, tell them they are men!
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Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed.
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And moody madness laughing wild Amid severest woe.
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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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