Where Ignorance Is Bliss, 'tis Folly To

Fair Laughs The Morn, And Soft The Zephyr Blows, While Proudly Rising O'er The Azure Realm In Gallant Trim The Gilded Vessel Goes, Youth On The Prow, And Pleasure At The Helm.

Hands That The Rod Of Empire Might Have Sway'd, Or Waked To Ecstasy The Living Lyre.

Man's Feeble Race What Ills Await! Labour, And Penury, The Racks Of Pain, Disease, And Sorrow's Weeping Train, And Death, Sad Refuge From The Storms Of Fate!

To Contemplation's Sober Eye. / Such Is The Race Of Man.

How Low, How Little Are The Proud, How Indigent The Great!