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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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In buskined measures move Pale Grief and pleasing Pain, With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast.
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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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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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Visions of glory, spare my aching sight! Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!
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I shall be but a shrimp of an author.
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The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
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Some bold adventurers disdain The limits of their little reign, And unknown regions date descry.
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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 different steps and degrees of education may be compared to the artificer's operations upon marble it is one thing to dig it out of the quarry, and another to square it, to give it gloss and lustre, call forth every beautiful spot and vein, shape it into a column, or animate it into a statue.
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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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Not all that tempts your wandering eyes And heedless hearts, is lawful prize Nor all that glisters gold.
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The hues of bliss more brightly glow, Chastis'd by sabler tints of woe.
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As to posterity, I may ask what has it ever done to oblige me?
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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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And truth severe, by fairy fiction drest.
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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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Full many a gem of purest ray serene, The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear.
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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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Chill penury repress'd their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.
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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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