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

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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 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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Ah, tell them they are men!
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Scatter plenty o'er a smiling land.
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T'was Spring, t'was Summer, all was gay Now Autumn bears a cloud brow The flowers of Spring are swept way And Summer fruits desert the bough
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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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To brisk notes in cadence beating, glance their many-twinkling feet.
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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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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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The hues of bliss more brightly glow, Chastis'd by sabler tints of woe.
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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 Attic warbler pours her throat, Responsive to the cuckoo's note, The untaught harmony of spring.
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Ah, happy hills! ah, pleasing shade! Ah, fields beloved in vain! Where once my careless childhood stray'd, A stranger yet to pain! I feel the gales that from ye blow A momentary bliss bestow.
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As to posterity, I may ask what has it ever done to oblige me?
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Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
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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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How low, how little are the proud, How indigent the great!
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Not all that tempts your wandering eyes And heedless hearts, is lawful prize Nor all that glisters gold.
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And moody madness laughing wild Amid severest woe.
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