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 enthrall? 
  What idle progeny succeed
  To chase the rolling circle’s speed,
  Or urge the flying ball?

  While some on earnest business bent
  Their murmuring 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 possessed;
  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 to-day: 
  Yet see how all around ’em wait
  The ministers of human fate,
  And black Misfortune’s baleful train! 
  Ah, shew 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 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 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,
  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.