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-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, And hard Unkindness’ alter’d eye, That mocks the tear it forc’d to flow; And keen Remorse with blood defil’d, 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, 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. THOMAS GRAY. ―――― ODE ON RANELAGH.[33] _Addressed to the Ladies._ Ye dazzling lamps, ye Jocund fires, That from yon fabric shine, Where grateful pleasure yet admires Her Lacy’s great design: And ye who from the fields which lie Round Chelsea, with amazement’s eye, The gardens and the dome survey, Whose walks, whose trees, whose lights among, Wander the courtly train along Their thought-dispelling way. Ah splendid room! Ah, pleasing shade! Ah, walks belov’d in vain, Where oft in happier times I stray’d, A stranger then to pain: I feel the gales, which from you blow A momentary bliss bestow, As waving fresh their gladsome wing, They seem to sooth my famish’d soul And, redolent of tea and roll, To breathe a second spring. Rotunda, say, for thou hast seen Full many a sprightly race In thy bright round with step serene, The paths of pleasure trace: Who chiefly now delight to lave Green hyson, in the boiling wave, The sable coffee, which distil? What longing progeny are found Who stroll incessant round and round Like horses in a mill? While some on earnest business dream: And, gravely stupid, try To search each complicated scheme Of publick policy: Some ladies leave the spacious dome Around the garden’s maze to roam, And unknown regions dare descry; Still as they walk they look behind, Lest fame a secret foe should find From some malicious eye.