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As to posterity, I may ask what has it ever done to oblige me?

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
Oblige
Posterity
Asks
May
Ever
Done

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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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Along the cool sequestered vale of life, They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.
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Ah, tell them they are men!
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Youth smiles without any reason. It is one of its chiefest charms.
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I shall be but a shrimp of an author.
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And truth severe, by fairy fiction drest.
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Chill penury repress'd their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.
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Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.
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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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E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.
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And moody madness laughing wild Amid severest woe.
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Thought would destroy their paradise.
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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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The hues of bliss more brightly glow, Chastis'd by sabler tints of woe.
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Visions of glory, spare my aching sight! Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my 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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