Ah happy hills! ah pleasing shade! Ah fields belov'd in vain! Where once my careless childhood stray'd, A stranger yet to pain! I feel the gales that from you 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 What idle progeny succeed 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: Still as they run they look behind, Gay Hope is theirs, by Fancy fed, And lively Cheer, of Vigour born; Alas! regardless of their doom, No sense have they of ills to come, Yet see how all around them wait, And black Misfortune's baleful train; Ah, show them where in ambush stand, To seize their prey the murderous band! Ah, tell them they are men! These shall the fury passions tear, Disdainful Anger, pallid Fear, And Shame that sculks 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, And grinning Infamy. The stings of Falsehood those shall try, And hard Unkindness' alter'd 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; To each his suff'rings; all are men, Condemn'd alike to groan, The tender for another's pain, The unfeeling for his own. Yet, ah! why should they know their fate? And Happiness too swiftly flies: THE COUNTRY BOX, 1757. BY ROBERT LLOYD, M. A. THE wealthy Cit, grown old in trade, And, as they slowly jog together, "What signify the loads of wealth |