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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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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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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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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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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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Youth smiles without any reason. It is one of its chiefest charms.
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One principal characteristic of vice in the present age is the contempt of fame.
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And truth severe, by fairy fiction drest.
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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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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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Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.
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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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I shall be but a shrimp of an author.
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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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And moody madness laughing wild Amid severest woe.
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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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Scatter plenty o'er a smiling land.
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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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E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.
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Full many a gem of purest ray serene, The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear.
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