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In buskined measures move Pale Grief and pleasing Pain, With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast.

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
Horror
Throbbing
Grief
Tyrant
Move
Pleasing
Pain
Measures
Moving
Breast
Tyrants
Pale
Breasts

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Now as the Paradisiacal pleasures of the Mahometans consist in playing upon the flute and lying with Houris, be mine to read eternal new romances of Marivaux and Crebillon.
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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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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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Some bold adventurers disdain The limits of their little reign, And unknown regions date descry.
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Thought would destroy their paradise.
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When love could teach a monarch to be wise, And gospel-light first dawn'd from Bullen's eyes.
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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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And truth severe, by fairy fiction drest.
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Sweet is the breath of vernal shower,/ The bee's collected treasure sweet,/ Sweet music's melting fall, but sweeter yet/ The still small voice of gratitude.
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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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The hues of bliss more brightly glow, Chastis'd by sabler tints of woe.
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The different steps and degrees of education may be compared to the artificer's operations upon marble it is one thing to dig it out of the quarry, and another to square it, to give it gloss and lustre, call forth every beautiful spot and vein, shape it into a column, or animate it into a statue.
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I shall be but a shrimp of an author.
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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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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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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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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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Full many a gem of purest ray serene, The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear.
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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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