Ah happy hills! ah pleasing shade!

Ah fields belov'd in vain!

Where once my careless childhood ftray'd,

A ftranger yet to pain!

I feel, the gales that from ye blow,
A momentary blifs bestow,

As waving fresh their gladfome wing,
My weary foul they feem to footh,
And, redolent of joy and youth,

To breathe a fecond fpring.

Say, Father THAMES, for thou haft feen

Full many a fprightly race

Difporting on thy margent green
The paths of pleasure trace;

Who foremost now delight to cleave,

With pliant arms, thy glaffy wave?

The

The captive linnet, which enthral?

What idle progeny fucceed

To chase 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 descry:
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 pleasing when poffeft;

The tear forgot as foon as fhed,

The funshine of the breaft:

1

Theirs

Theirs buxom Health, of rofy hue,
Wild wit, Invention ever-new,

And lively Cheer of Vigour born;

The thoughtless day, the easy night,

The spirits pure, the flumbers light,

That fly th' approach of morn.

Alas! regardless of their doom,

The little victims play!

No fense have they of ills to come,

Nor care beyond to-day:

Yet fee, how all around 'em wait

The minifters of human fate,

And black Misfortune's baleful train!

Ah, fhow them where in ambush stand,

To feize their prey, the murderous band!

Ah, tell them they are men!

These shall the fury paffions tear,

The vultures of the mind,

Difdainful

Difdainful Anger, pallid Fear,

And Shame that fkulks behind;

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

That inly gnaws the fecret heart;

And Envy wan, and faded Care,
Grim-vifag'd comfortlefs Defpair,
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 Falfehood thofe fhall 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
Amid feverest woe.

Lo, in the Vale of Years beneath,

A grifly 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 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 fhould they know their fate!

Since forrow never comes too late,

And