IS it so small a
To have enjoy'd the sun,
To have lived light in the spring,
To have loved, to have thought, to have done;
To have advanced true friends, and beat down baffling foes;
That we must feign a
Of doubtful future date,
And while we dream on
Lose all our present state,
And relegate to worlds yet distant our repose?
Not much,
I know, you
What pleasures may be had,
Who look on life with
Estranged, like mine, and sad:
And yet the village churl feels the truth more than you;
Who 's loth to leave this
Which to him little yields:
His hard-task'd sunburnt wife,
His often-labour'd fields;
The boors with whom he talk'd, the country spots he knew.
But thou, because thou
Men scoff at Heaven and Fate;
Because the gods thou
Fail to make blest thy state,
Tremblest, and wilt not dare to trust the joys there are.
I say,
Fear not! life
Leaves human effort scope.
But, since life teems with ill,
Nurse no extravagant hope.
Because thou must not dream, thou need'st not then despair.
