Ah, happy hills, ah, pleasing shade, Where once my careless childhood stray'd, 15 I feel the gales, that from ye blow, 20 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 25 Who foremost now delight to cleave 30 To chase the rolling circle's speed, While some on earnest business bent Their murm'ring labours ply 'Gainst graver hours, that bring constraint, To sweeten liberty: 35 Some bold adventurers disdain 40 The limits of their little reign, And unknown regions dare descry: Still as they run they look behind, Gay hope is theirs by fancy fed, 45 Theirs buxom health of rosy hue, Wild wit, invention ever-new, 50 And lively chear of vigour born; That fly th' approach of morn. Alas, regardless of their doom The little victims play! No sense have they of ills to come, 55 Yet see how all around 'em wait 60 And black Misfortune's baleful train! Ah, show them where in ambush stand To seize their prey the murth'rous band! Ah, tell them, they are men! These shall the fury Passions tear, And Shame that sculks behind; 65 Or pineing Love shall waste their youth, Or Jealousy with rankling tooth, That inly gnaws the secret heart, And Envy wan, and faded Care, Grim-visag'd comfortless Despair, 70 And Sorrow's piercing dart. Ambition this shall tempt to rise, And grinning Infamy. 75 The stings of Falsehood those shall try, And hard Unkindness' alter'd eye, That mocks the tear it forc'd to flow; And keen Remorse with blood defil'd, 80 And moody Madness laughing wild Lo, in the vale of years beneath More hideous than their Queen: 85 This racks the joints, this fires the veins, That every labouring sinew strains, Those in the deeper vitals rage: 90 Lo, Poverty, to fill the band, To each his suff'rings: all are men, The tender for another's pain; Th' unfeeling for his own. 95 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, 100 'Tis folly to be wise. ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD (1751) The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, 5 Now fades the glimmering landscape on the And all the air a solemn stillness holds, 10 Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower, Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, 15 Each in his narrow cell forever laid 20 The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. 25 Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, 30 Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke: How jocund did they drive their team afield! How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, 35 Await alike th' inevitable hour. The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye Proud, impute to these the fault, If Mem'ry o'er their tomb no trophies raise, Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault 40 The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. Can storied urn or animated bust Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? 45 Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre. But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page 50 Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll; Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul. Full many a gem of purest ray serene 60 Some village Hampden, that with dauntless The little tyrant of his fields withstood, Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood. Th' applause of list'ning senates to command, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, |