| |
| YE distant spires, ye antique towers, | |
| That crowned the watery glade, | |
| Where grateful Science still adores | |
| Her Henry’s holy shade; | |
| And ye that from the stately brow | 5 |
| Of Windsor’s heights the expanse below | |
| Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey, | |
| Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among | |
| Wanders the hoary Thames along | |
| His silvery 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 margent green, | |
| The paths of pleasure trace; | |
| Who foremost now delight to cleave, | 25 |
| With pliant arm, thy glassy wave? | |
| The captive linnet which enthrall? | |
| What idle progeny succeed | |
| To chase the rolling circle’s speed, | |
| Or urge the flying ball? | 30 |
| |
| While some, on urgent business bent, | |
| Their murmuring labors ply | |
| ’Gainst graver hours that bring 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 vigor born; | |
| The thoughtless day, the easy night, | |
| The spirits pure, the slumbers light, | |
| That fly the approach of morn. | 50 |
| |
| Alas! regardless of their doom, | |
| The little victims play! | |
| No sense have they of ills to come, | |
| Nor care beyond to-day; | |
| Yet see, how all around them 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-visaged, 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 infancy; | |
| The stings of falsehood those shall try, | 75 |
| And hard unkindness’ altered eye, | |
| That mocks the tears it forced to flow; | |
| And keen remorse, with blood defiled, | |
| And 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 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. | 90 |
| |
| To each his sufferings: all are men, | |
| Condemned alike to groan; | |
| The tender for another’s pain, | |
| The 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, | |
| ’T is folly to be wise! | 100 |
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