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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
Hands
Might
Waked
Life
Lyre
Sway
Empire
Ecstasy
Empires
Living

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How low, how little are the proud, How indigent the great!
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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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One principal characteristic of vice in the present age is the contempt of fame.
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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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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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In buskined measures move Pale Grief and pleasing Pain, With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast.
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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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Along the cool sequestered vale of life, They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.
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And truth severe, by fairy fiction drest.
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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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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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Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
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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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Youth smiles without any reason. It is one of its chiefest charms.
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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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I shall be but a shrimp of an author.
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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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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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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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