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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 !

Ah shew them where in ambush stand

To seize their prey the murth'rous band !

Ah, tell them, they are men !

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Or pining Love shall waste their youth,
Or Jealousy with rankling tooth,

That

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That inly gnaws the secret heart, And Envy wan, and faded Care, Grim-visag'd comfortless Despair,

And Sorrow's piercing dart.

Ambition this shall tempt to rile,

Then whirl the wretch from high,
To bitter Scorn a Sacrifice,

And grinding Infamy.
The stings of Fallhood those shall try,
And hard Unkindness' alter'd eye,

That mocks the tear it forc'd to flow ;

And keen Remorse with blood defild,
And moody Madness * laughing wild

Amid fevereft woe.

Lo,

Madness laughing in his ireful mood.,

Dryden's Fable of Palamon and Arcite.

Lo, in the vale of years beneath

A grilly troop are seen,
The painful family of Death,

More hideous than their Queen:
This racks the joints, this fires the veins,
That every labouring finew strains,

Those in the deeper vitals rage :
Lo, Poverty, to fill the band,
That numbs the foul with icy hand,

And flow-consuming Age.

To each his suffrings: all are men,

Condemn'd alike to groan, The tender for another's pain :

Th' unfeeling for his own,

Yet,

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,

'Tis folly to be wise.

LONG

A

LONG STORY.

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