Quote

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?

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
Anxiety
Cheerful
Warm
Ring
Behinds
Anxious
Ling
Behind
Cast
Precincts
Left
Rings
Resign
Look
Longing
Forgetfulness
Looks
Casts
Pleasing
Dumb
Prey

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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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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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Full many a gem of purest ray serene, The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear.
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The hues of bliss more brightly glow, Chastis'd by sabler tints of woe.
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Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor.
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Scatter plenty o'er a smiling land.
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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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Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed.
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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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Visions of glory, spare my aching sight! Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!
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To Contemplation's sober eye. / Such is the race of Man.
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Thought would destroy their paradise.
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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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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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Not all that tempts your wandering eyes And heedless hearts, is lawful prize Nor all that glisters gold.
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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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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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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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And moody madness laughing wild Amid severest woe.
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As to posterity, I may ask what has it ever done to oblige me?
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