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Alas, regardless of their doom,
The little victims play!
No fenfe have they of ills to come,
Nor care beyond to-day;
Yet fee how all around 'em wait
The Ministers of human fate,
And black Misfortune's baleful train! Ah fhew them where in ambush stand To feize their prey the murth'rous band! Ah, tell them, they are men!
Thefe fhall the fury Paffions tear,
And Shame that sculks behind;
Or pining Love shall waste their youth,
Or Jealousy with rankling tooth,
That inly gnaws the secret heart, And Envy wan, and faded Care, Grim-vifag'd comfortless Despair, And Sorrow's piercing dart.
Ambition this fhall tempt to rife,
Then whirl the wretch from high,
To bitter Scorn a Sacrifice,
And grinning Infamy.
The ftings of Falfhood thofe fhall try,
That mocks the tear it forc'd to flow;
And keen Remorfe with blood defil'd,
Madness laughing in his ireful mood.,
Lo, in the vale of years beneath
A grifly troop are feen, The painful family of Death,
More hideous than their Queen:
This racks the joints, this fires the veins,
Those in the deeper vitals rage:
To each his fuff'rings: all are men,
The tender for another's pain:
Th' unfeeling for his own,
Yet, ah! why should they know their fate?
Since forrow never comes too late,
And happiness too fwiftly flies.
Thought would deftroy their paradife, No more; where ignorance is bliss,
'Tis folly to be wife.