To Contemplation's Sober Eye. / Such Is

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.

Bright-eyed Fancy, Hov'ring O'er, Scatters From Her Pictured Urn Thoughts That Breathe And Words That Burn.

Hell Is Full Of Good Intentions.

Some Village Hampden, That With Dauntless Breast The Little Tyrant Of His Fields Withstood, Some Mute Inglorious Milton Here May Rest, Some Cromwell Guiltless Of His Country's Blood.

To Each His Suff'rings: All Are Men, / Condemn'd Alike To Groan, / The Tender For Another's Pain; / Th' Unfeeling For His Own.