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Ye distant
spires, ye antique towers,
That crown the watery
glade,
Where grateful Science still adores
Her
Henry's holy shade;
And ye, that from the stately
brow
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.
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,
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.
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
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?
While some on earnest
business bent
Their murm'ring labours 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,
Less pleasing
when possest;
The tear forgot as soon as shed,
The
sunshine of the breast:
Theirs buxom health of rosy
hue,
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.
Alas! regardless of
their doom
The little victims play!
No sense have
they of ills to come,
Nor care beyond today:
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 murd'rous 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 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.
To each his suff'rings: all
are men,
Condemned 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 paradise.
No more; -where
ignorance is bliss,
'Tis folly to be wise.
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