THOMAS GRAY

He gave to misery (all he had) a tear.

And weep the more, because I weep in vain.

Alas, regardless of their doom, the little victims play! No sense have they of ills to come, nor care beyond today.

Commerce changes the fate and genius of nations.

Youth smiles without any reason. It is one of its chiefest charms.

'Tis folly to be wise.

I shall be but a shrimp of an author.

Visions of glory, spare my aching sight.

Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.

If the best man's faults were written on his forehead, he would draw his hat over his eyes.

Too poor for a bribe, and too proud to importune, he had not the method of making a fortune.

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Far from the madding crowd’s ignoble strife …

When ignorance is bliss, / Tis folly to be wise.

Here rests his head upon the lap of earth, A youth to fortune and to fame unknown: Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth, And Melancholy mark'd him for her own.

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Sorrow's faded form, and solitude behind.

No further seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailties from their dread abode (There they alike in trembling hope repose), The bosom of his Father and his God.

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?

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.

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.

Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed.

Each in his narrow cell forever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.