Ah, happy hills! ah, pleasing shade! Ah, fields beloved in vain! Where once my careless childhood stray'd, A stranger yet to pain! I feel the gales that from ye blow As waving fresh their gladsome wing, My weary soul they seem to soothe, Say, father Thames, for thou hast seen The captive linnet which enthral ? What idle progeny succeed While some, on earnest business bent, Their murmuring labors ply 'Gainst graver hours that bring constraint To sweeten liberty: Some bold adventurers disdain The limits of their little reign, And unknown regions dare descry: Still as they run they look behind, They hear a voice in every wind, And snatch a fearful joy. Gay hope is theirs by fancy fed, And lively cheer, of vigor born ! That fly the' approach of morn. Alas! regardless of their doom, The little victims play; No sense have they of ills to come, Yet see, how all around 'em wait The ministers of human fate, And black Misfortune's baleful train! Ah, show them where in ambush stand, To seize their prey the murderous band! Ah, tell them they are men! These shall the fury Passions tear, The vultures of the mind, Disdainful Anger, pallid Fear, And Shame that skulks 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-visaged comfortless Despair, And Sorrow's piercing dart. Ambition this shall tempt to rise, Then whirl the wretch from high, To bitter Scorn a sacrifice, And grinning Infamy. The stings of Falsehood those shall try And hard Unkindness' altered eye, That mocks the tear it forced to flow; And keen Remorse, with blood defiled. And moody Madness laughing wild Amid severest woe. Lo! in the vale of years beneath, A grisly troop are seen, The painful family of Death, More hideous than their queen : This racks the joints, this fires the veins. That every laboring sinew strains, Those in the deeper vitals rage: Lo! Poverty, to fill the band, That numbs the soul with icy hand, And slow consuming Age. To each his sufferings: all are men, Condemn'd alike to groan; The tender for another's pain, The' 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 paradise. |