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Hands that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.

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
Might
Waked
Life
Lyre
Sway
Empire
Ecstasy
Empires
Living
Hands

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How low, how little are the proud, How indigent the great!
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I shall be but a shrimp of an author.
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Full many a gem of purest ray serene, The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear.
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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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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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Some bold adventurers disdain The limits of their little reign, And unknown regions date descry.
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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 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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The hues of bliss more brightly glow, Chastis'd by sabler tints of woe.
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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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To brisk notes in cadence beating, glance their many-twinkling feet.
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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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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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And moody madness laughing wild Amid severest woe.
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In buskined measures move Pale Grief and pleasing Pain, With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast.
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To Contemplation's sober eye. / Such is the race of Man.
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Youth smiles without any reason. It is one of its chiefest charms.
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Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor.
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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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We frolic while 'tis May.
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