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When love could teach a monarch to be wise, And gospel-light first dawn'd from Bullen's eyes.

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
Eyes
Eye
Light
Monarch
Firsts
Monarchs
First
Dawn
Love
Gospel
Wise
Teach

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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.
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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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In buskined measures move Pale Grief and pleasing Pain, With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast.
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Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed.
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I shall be but a shrimp of an author.
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Ah, tell them they are men!
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To Contemplation's sober eye. / Such is the race of Man.
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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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The hues of bliss more brightly glow, Chastis'd by sabler tints of woe.
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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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Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor.
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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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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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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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The time will come, when thou shalt lift thine eyes To watch a long-drawn battle in the skies. While aged peasants, too amazed for words, Stare at the flying fleets of wondrous birds.
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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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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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To brisk notes in cadence beating, glance their many-twinkling feet.
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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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