Men Will Believe Anything At All Provided

Sorrow's Faded Form, And Solitude Behind.

To Each His Suff'rings; 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, 't Is Folly To Be Wise.

Behind The Steps That Misery Treads Approaching Comfort View: The Hues Of Bliss More Brightly Glow Chastised By Sabler Tints Of Woe, And Blended Form, With Artful Strife, The Strength And Harmony Of Life.

Ah, Happy Hills! Ah, Pleasing Shade! Ah, Fields Beloved In Vain! Where Once My Careless Childhood Stray'd, A Stranger Yet To Pain! I Feel The Gales That From Ye Blow A Momentary Bliss Bestow.

The Language Of The Age Is Never The Language Of Poetry, Except Among The French, Whose Verse, Where The Thought Or Image Does Not Support It, Differs In Nothing From Prose.