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

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Some bold adventurers disdain The limits of their little reign, And unknown regions date descry.
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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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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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Visions of glory, spare my aching sight! Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!
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Scatter plenty o'er a smiling land.
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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 hues of bliss more brightly glow, Chastis'd by sabler tints of woe.
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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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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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Not all that tempts your wandering eyes And heedless hearts, is lawful prize Nor all that glisters gold.
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Any fool may write a most valuable book by chance, if he will only tell us what he heard and saw with veracity.
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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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One principal characteristic of vice in the present age is the contempt of fame.
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To brisk notes in cadence beating, glance their many-twinkling feet.
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Hands that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.
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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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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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In buskined measures move Pale Grief and pleasing Pain, With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast.
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To Contemplation's sober eye. / Such is the race of Man.
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