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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
Empire
Ecstasy
Empires
Living
Hands
Might
Waked
Life
Lyre
Sway

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Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
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How low, how little are the proud, How indigent the great!
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Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed.
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We frolic while 'tis May.
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Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.
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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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Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor.
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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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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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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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To contemplation's sober eye, Such is the race of man And they that creep, and they that fly, Shall end where they began, Alike the busy and the gay, But flutter through life's little day.
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Chill penury repress'd their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.
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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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One principal characteristic of vice in the present age is the contempt of fame.
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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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Along the cool sequestered vale of life, They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.
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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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To Contemplation's sober eye. / Such is the race of Man.
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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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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.
Thomas Gray