The Poetical Works of Thomas Gray: With a Life ...

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Little, Brown,, 1859 - 223 pages
 

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Page 115 - THE EPITAPH 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. Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere...
Page 21 - That every labouring sinew strains, Those in the deeper vitals rage ; Lo ! Poverty, to fill the band, That numbs the soul with icy hand, And slow-consuming Age.
Page 104 - Await alike the inevitable hour ; The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, ' If memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.
Page 19 - Alas! regardless of their doom The little victims play; No sense have they of ills to come Nor care beyond to-day: Yet see how all around 'em wait The ministers of human fate And black Misfortune's baleful train!
Page 105 - ... inevitable hour: The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. 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?
Page 161 - Though fraught with all learning, yet straining his throat, To persuade Tommy Townshend ' to lend him a vote ; Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on refining, And thought of convincing, while they thought of dining: Though equal to all things, for all things unfit, Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit ; For a patriot, too cool; for a drudge, disobedient, And too fond of the right to pursue the expedient. In short 'twas his fate, unemploy'd, or in place, sir, To eat mutton cold, and...
Page 47 - Cold is Cadwallo's tongue, That hush'd the stormy main : Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed : Mountains, ye mourn in vain Modred, whose magic song Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloudtopt head. On dreary Arvon's shore they lie, Smear'd with gore, and ghastly pale : Far, far aloof th' affrighted ravens sail ; The famish'd eagle screams, and passes by.
Page 101 - O'erhang his wavy bed: Now air is hushed, save where the weak-eyed bat With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing, Or where the beetle winds His small but sullen horn, As oft he rises, 'midst the twilight path Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum...
Page 16 - A stranger yet to pain! I feel the gales that from ye blow A momentary bliss bestow, As waving fresh their gladsome wing My weary soul they seem to soothe, And, redolent of joy and youth, To breathe a second spring.
Page 31 - O'er Idalia's velvet^green The rosy-crowned Loves are seen On Cytherea's day, With antic Sport, and blue-eyed Pleasures, Frisking light in frolic measures ; Now pursuing, now retreating, Now in circling troops they meet ; To brisk notes in cadence beating Glance their many-twinkling feet.

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