Glance their many-twinkling feet. - Thomas Gray

What sorrow was, thou bad'st her know, And from her own she learned to melt at others' woe.

Rich windows that exclude the light, And passages that lead to nothing.

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....

Some village-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.