What makes thee struggle and rave? Why are men ill at ease? ’Tis that the lot they have Fails their own will to please; For man would make no murmuring, were his will obeyed. And why is it, that still Man with his lot thus fights? ’Tis that he makes this _will_ The measure of his _rights_, And believes nature outraged if his will’s gainsaid. Couldst thou, Pausanias, learn How deep a fault is this; Couldst thou but once discern Thou hast no _right_ to bliss, No title from the gods to welfare and repose,-- Then thou wouldst look less mazed Whene’er of bliss debarred, Nor think the gods were crazed When thy own lot went hard. But we are all the same,--the fools of our own woes! For, from the first faint morn Of life, the thirst for bliss Deep in man’s heart is born; And, sceptic as he is, He fails not to judge clear if this be quenched or no. Nor is that thirst to blame. Man errs not that he deems His welfare his true aim: He errs because he dreams The world does but exist that welfare to bestow. We mortals are no kings For each of whom to sway A new-made world upsprings, Meant merely for his play: No, we are strangers here; the world is from of old. In vain our pent wills fret, And would the world subdue. Limits we did not set Condition all we do; Born into life we are, and life must be our mould. Born into life! man grows Forth from his parents’ stem, And blends their bloods, as those Of theirs are blent in them; So each new man strikes root into a far fore-time. Born into life! we bring A bias with us here, And, when here, each new thing Affects us we come near; To tunes we did not call, our being must keep chime. Born into life! in vain, Opinions, those or these, Unaltered to retain, The obstinate mind decrees: Experience, like a sea, soaks all-effacing in. Born into life! who lists May what is false hold dear, And for himself make mists Through which to see less clear: The world is what it is, for all our dust and din. Born into life! ’tis we, And not the world, are new; Our cry for bliss, our plea, Others have urged it too: Our wants have all been felt, our errors made before. No eye could be too sound To observe a world so vast, No patience too profound To sort what’s here amassed; How man may here best live, no care too great to explore.