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Visions Of Glory, Spare My Aching Sight! Ye Unborn Ages, Crowd Not On My Soul!
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Visions of glory, spare my aching sight!
Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!
-- Thomas Gray (1716-1771)
-- The Bard, III, 1, Line 11
Related:
Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed.
-- Thomas Gray (1716-1771) -- The Bard, II, 3, Line 11...
Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes; Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart.
-- Thomas Gray (1716-1771) -- The Bard, I, 3, Line 12...
And truth severe, by fairy fiction drest. -- Thomas Gray (1716-1771) -- The Bard, III, 3, Line 3
Ruin seize thee, ruthless king! Confusion on thy banners wait!
Though fann'd by Conquest's crimson wing, They mock the air with idle state....
Weave the warp, and weave the woof, The winding-sheet of Edward's race.
Give ample room and verge enough The characters of hell to trace....
Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic tears.
-- Thomas Gray (1716-1771) -- The Progress of Poesy, III, 1, Line 12...
To high-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llewellyn's lay.
-- Thomas Gray (1716-1771) -- The Bard, I, 2, Line 14...
Ye distant spires, ye antique towers.
-- Thomas Gray (1716-1771) -- On a Distant Prospect of Eton College, Stanza 1...
Loose his beard, and hoary hair Stream'd like a meteor to the troubled air.
-- Thomas Gray (1716-1771) -- The Bard, I, 2, Line 5...