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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.

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
Heaven
Largely
Wish
Sincere
Soul
Send
Large
Heav
Friendship
Recompense
Gave
Bounty
Tears
Gained
Friend
Tear

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And moody madness laughing wild Amid severest woe.
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Along the cool sequestered vale of life, They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.
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I shall be but a shrimp of an author.
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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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Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.
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How low, how little are the proud, How indigent the great!
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From toil he wins his spirits light, From busy day the peaceful night Rich, from the very want of wealth, In heaven's best treasures, peace and health.
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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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Some bold adventurers disdain The limits of their little reign, And unknown regions date descry.
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The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
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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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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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E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.
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In buskined measures move Pale Grief and pleasing Pain, With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast.
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As to posterity, I may ask what has it ever done to oblige me?
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Full many a gem of purest ray serene, The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear.
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To brisk notes in cadence beating, glance their many-twinkling feet.
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Sweet is the breath of vernal shower,/ The bee's collected treasure sweet,/ Sweet music's melting fall, but sweeter yet/ The still small voice of gratitude.
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Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes, Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart.
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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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