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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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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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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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And moody madness laughing wild Amid severest woe.
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The hues of bliss more brightly glow, Chastis'd by sabler tints of woe.
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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 curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
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Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.
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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 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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Some bold adventurers disdain The limits of their little reign, And unknown regions date descry.
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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. Yet ah! why should they know their fate, Since sorrow never comes too late, And happiness too swiftly flies? Thought would destroy their paradise. No more where ignorance is bliss, 'T is folly to be wise.
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Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor.
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Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch A broader browner shade Where'er the rude and moss-grown beech O'er-canopies the glade, Beside some water's rushy brink With me the Muse shall sit, and think.
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Ah, tell them they are men!
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Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
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I shall be but a shrimp of an author.
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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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O'er her warm cheek, and rising bosom, move The bloom of young Desire and purple light of love.
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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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