| |
| YE distant spires, ye antique towers, | |
| That crown the watery glade, | |
| Where grateful Science still adores | |
| Her Henry’s holy shade; 1 | |
| And ye, that from the stately brow | 5 |
| Of Windsor’s heights th’ expanse below | |
| Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey, | |
| Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among | |
| Wanders the hoary Thames along | |
| His silver-winding way. | 10 |
| |
| Ah, happy hills! ah, pleasing shade! | |
| Ah, fields beloved in vain, | |
| Where once my careless childhood strayed | |
| A stranger yet to pain! | |
| I feel the gales that from ye blow, | 15 |
| A momentary bliss bestow, | |
| As waving fresh their gladsome wing, | |
| My weary soul they seem to soothe, | |
| And, redolent of joy and youth, | |
| To breathe a second spring. | 20 |
| |
| Say, Father Thames, for thou hast seen | |
| Full many a sprightly race | |
| Disporting on thy margin green | |
| The paths of pleasure trace; | |
| Who foremost now delight to cleave | 25 |
| With pliant arm thy glassy wave? | |
| The captive linnet which enthral? | |
| What idle progeny succeed | |
| To chase the rolling circle’s speed, | |
| Or urge the flying ball? | 30 |
| |
| While some on earnest business bent | |
| Their murmuring labours ply | |
| ’Gainst graver hours, that bright constraint | |
| To sweeten liberty: | |
| Some bold adventurers disdain | 35 |
| 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. | 40 |
| |
| Gay hope is theirs by fancy fed, | |
| Less pleasing when possest; | |
| The tear forgot as soon as shed, | |
| The sunshine of the breast: | |
| Theirs buxom health of rosy hue, | 45 |
| Wild wit, invention ever-new, | |
| And lively cheer of vigour born; | |
| The thoughtless day, the easy night, | |
| The spirits pure, the slumbers light, | |
| That fly th’ approach of morn. | 50 |
| |
| Alas, regardless of their doom, | |
| The little victims play! | |
| No sense have they of ills to come, | |
| No care beyond to-day: | |
| Yet see how all around ’em wait | 55 |
| 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! | 60 |
| |
| 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, | 65 |
| Or Jealousy with rankling tooth, | |
| That inly gnaws the secret heart, | |
| And Envy wan, and faded Care, | |
| Grim-visag’d comfortless Despair, | |
| And Sorrow’s piercing dart. | 70 |
| |
| 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, | 75 |
| And hard Unkindness’ alter’d eye, | |
| That mocks the tear it forc’d to flow; | |
| And keen Remorse with blood defil’d, | |
| The moody Madness laughing wild | |
| Amid severest woe. | 80 |
| |
| 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, | 85 |
| That every labouring 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. | 90 |
| |
| To each his sufferings: 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, | 95 |
| 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. | 100 |
