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Some bold adventurers disdain The limits of their little reign, And unknown regions date descry.

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
Littles
Disdain
Little
Bold
Reign
Regions
Date
Unknown
Adventure
Adventurers
Limits
Adventurer

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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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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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O'er her warm cheek, and rising bosom, move The bloom of young Desire and purple light of love.
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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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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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T'was Spring, t'was Summer, all was gay Now Autumn bears a cloud brow The flowers of Spring are swept way And Summer fruits desert the bough
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Scatter plenty o'er a smiling land.
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Chill penury repress'd their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.
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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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Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
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Ah, tell them they are men!
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We frolic while 'tis May.
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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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Full many a gem of purest ray serene, The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear.
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And truth severe, by fairy fiction drest.
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Her track, where'er the goddess roves, Glory pursue, and gen'rous shame, Th' unconquerable mind, and freedom's holy flame.
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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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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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Visions of glory, spare my aching sight! Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!
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