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To brisk notes in cadence beating, glance their many-twinkling feet.

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
Many
Twinkling
Cadence
Glance
Glances
Beating
Ballet
Notes
Feet
Brisk

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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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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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Scatter plenty o'er a smiling land.
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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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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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Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch A broader browner shade Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech O'er-canopies the glade, Beside some water's rushy brink With me the Muse shall sit, and think.
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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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One principal characteristic of vice in the present age is the contempt of fame.
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Now as the Paradisiacal pleasures of the Mahometans consist in playing upon the flute and lying with Houris, be mine to read eternal new romances of Marivaux and Crebillon.
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The hues of bliss more brightly glow, Chastis'd by sabler tints of woe.
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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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Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor.
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Chill penury repress'd their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.
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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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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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E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.
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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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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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Thought would destroy their paradise.
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