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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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How low, how little are the proud, How indigent the great!
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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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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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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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Full many a gem of purest ray serene, The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear.
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Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor.
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Chill penury repress'd their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.
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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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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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We frolic while 'tis May.
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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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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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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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Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray Along the cool sequester'd vale of life They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.
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The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Awaits alike th' inevitable hour. The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
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Along the cool sequestered vale of life, They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.
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One principal characteristic of vice in the present age is the contempt of fame.
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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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