« EelmineJätka »
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
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,
Gay hope is theirs, by fancy fed,
The tear forgot as soon as shed,
And lively cheer, of vigour born;
Alas! regardless of their doom,
No sense have they of ills to come,
how all around them wait
The ministers of human fate,
And black Misfortune's baleful train! Ah, shew 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,
And Shame that skulks behind;
That inly gnaws the secret heart; And Envy wan, and faded Care, Grim-visag'd 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,
That mocks the tear it forc'd to flow;
The painful family of Death,
More hideous than their queen! This racks the joints; this fires the veins; That ev'ry labʼring sinew strains ;
Those in the deeper vitals rage:
Lo! Poverty, to fill the band,
To each his sufferings: 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 :
LIFE is a sea, where storms must rise;
On God for all events depend;
You cannot want when God 's your friend :
The hand which form'd thee in the womb,
In what he grants, and what denies.
True- and this consequence you see,
And a calm conscience crowns the whole,-
You can't in reason wish for more.
And if kind Heav'n this comfort brings,
"Tis more than Heav'n bestows on kings.
AWAKE, my soul! and with the sun
Thy daily stage of duty run;
Thy precious time mispent redeem;