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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
Glances
Beating
Ballet
Notes
Feet
Brisk
Many
Twinkling
Cadence
Glance

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We frolic while 'tis May.
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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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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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O'er her warm cheek, and rising bosom, move The bloom of young Desire and purple light of love.
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Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed.
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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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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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Hands that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.
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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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Visions of glory, spare my aching sight! Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!
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Thought would destroy their paradise.
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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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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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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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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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How low, how little are the proud, How indigent the great!
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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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Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor.
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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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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.
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