The Works of Thomas Gray in Prose and Verse

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Macmillan, 1884 - 4 pages
 

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Page 222 - There at the foot of yonder nodding beech That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, His listless length at noontide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by.
Page 221 - Th' 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...
Page 220 - Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor.
Page 75 - 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 80 - The next with dirges due in sad array Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne, — Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.
Page 76 - The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride With incense kindled at the Muse's flame.
Page 78 - E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead, Dost in these lines their artless tale relate; If chance, by lonely contemplation led, Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate — Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, ' Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn Blushing with hasty steps the dews away To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.
Page 76 - Hampden that with dauntless breast The little tyrant of his fields withstood, Some mute inglorious Milton, here may rest, Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood. Th...
Page 232 - He gain'd from heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) a friend. No farther 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.
Page 34 - Where each old poetic mountain Inspiration breathed around : Every shade and hallow'd fountain Murmur'd deep a solemn sound : Till the sad Nine- in Greece's evil hour, Left their Parnassus for the Latian plains.

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