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

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Some bold adventurers disdain The limits of their little reign, And unknown regions date descry.
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The hues of bliss more brightly glow, Chastis'd by sabler tints of woe.
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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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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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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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Thought would destroy their paradise.
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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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E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.
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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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The time will come, when thou shalt lift thine eyes To watch a long-drawn battle in the skies. While aged peasants, too amazed for words, Stare at the flying fleets of wondrous birds.
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Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
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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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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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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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One principal characteristic of vice in the present age is the contempt of fame.
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Visions of glory, spare my aching sight! Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!
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Scatter plenty o'er a smiling land.
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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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To Contemplation's sober eye. / Such is the race of Man.
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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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