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"Ανθρωπος, ικανή πρόφασις εις το δυστυχείν.
YE distant spires, ye antique towers,
That crown the wat'ry glade,
Her Henry's holy shade ;
Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey,
His silver-winding way :
Ah, fields beloved in vain !
A stranger yet to pain !
I feel the gales that from ye blow
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
Full many a sprightly race
The paths of pleasure trace ;
The captive linnet which enthral ?
Or urge the flying ball ?
While some on earnest business bent
Their murm’ring labours ply 'Gainst graver hours that bring constraint
To sweeten liberty :
And unknown regions dare descry :
Still as they run they look behind,
And snatch a fearful joy.
Gay hope is theirs by fancy fed,
Less pleasing when possest ; The tear forgot as soon as shed,
The sunshine of the breast : Theirs buxom health, of rosy hue, Wild wit, invention ever new,
And lively cheer, of vigour born ; The thoughtless day, the easy night, The spirits pure, the slumbers light,
That fly th' approach of morn.
Alas ! regardless of their doom
The little victims play ;
Nor care beyond to-day :
And black Misfortune's baleful train ! Ah, show them where in ambush stand, To seize their prey, the murth'rous band !
Ah, tell them, they are men !