Large Was His Bounty, And His Soul

Nor Grandeur Hear With A Disdainful Smile The Short And Simple Annals Of The Poor.

T'was Spring, T'was Summer, All Was Gay Now Autumn Bears A Cloud Brow The Flowers Of Spring Are Swept Way And Summer Fruits Desert The Bough

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.

Rich With The Spoils Of Time.

And Moody Madness Laughing Wild Amid Severest Woe.