Difporting on thy margent green
The paths of pleasure trace,

Who foremost now delight to cleave
With pliant arm thy glaffy wave?
The captive linnet which enthrall ?
What idle progeny fucceed

To chafe the rolling circle's speed,
Or urge the flying ball?

While fome on earnest business bent

Their murm'ring labours ply

'Gainst graver hours, that bring constraint To fweeten Liberty :

Some bold adventurers difdain

The limits of their little reign,

And unknown regions dare defcry;
Still as they run they look behind,
They hear a voice in every wind,
And fnatch a fearful joy.

Gay Hope is theirs by Fancy fed,

Lefs pleafing when possest;
The tear forgot as foon as shed,
The funshine of the breast:

Theirs buxom Health of rofy hue,
Wild Wit, Invention ever new,
And lively Chear of vigour born,
The thoughtless day, the eafy night,
The fpirits pure, the flumbers light,
That fly th' approach of morn,

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 them wait

The minifters 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!

These shall the fury Paffions tear, The vultures of the mind,

Difdainful Anger, pallid Fear,

And Shame that skulks behind

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

That inly gnaws the fecret heart,
And envy wan, and faded Care,
Grim-vifag'd comfortless Despair,
And Sorrow's piercing dart.

Ambition this shall tempt to rife,
Then whirl the wretch from high,,
To bitter Scorn a facrifice,
And grinning Infamy.

The ftings of Falsehood those shall try,
And hard Unkindness' alter'd eye,
That mocks the tear it forc'd to flow;
And keen Remorfe with blood defil'd,
And moody Madness * laughing wild
Amidft févereft woe.

Lo, in the vale of years beneath

A grifly troop are seen,

The painful family of Death,

More hideous than their queen ::

---Madnefs laughing in his ireful mood.. Dryden's Fable of Palamon and Areite.C

This racks the joints, this fires the veins,
That every labouring finew ftrains,
Thofe in the deeper vitals rage:
Lo, Poverty to fill the band,

'That numbs the foul with icy hand,
And flow-confuming Age.

To each his fuff'rings: all are men, Condemn'd alike to groan;

"The tender for another's pain,

Th' unfeeling for his own.

Yet ah, why should they know their fate! Since Sorrow never comes too late, And Happiness too swiftly flies. 'Thought would destroy their paradife. No more; where ignorance is blifs,. "Tis folly to be wife.

HYMN

то

ADVERSITY.