Say, Father Thames, (for thou hast seen 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: Some bold adventurers disdain The limits of their little reign, And unknown regions dare descry: Gay hope is theirs, by fancy fed, Alas! regardless of their doom, The little victims play! No sense have they of ills to come, Yet see, how all around 'em wait 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, Disdainful Anger, pallid Fear, And Shame that skulks behind; Ambition this shall tempt to rise, And grinning Infamy. The stings of Falsehood those shall try, And keen Remorse with blood defiled, 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, Condemn'd 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! |