To high-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llewellyn's lay. - Thomas Gray

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, 'Tis folly to be wise.

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,/
The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea,/
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,/
And leaves the world to darkness and to me./

Ye distant spires, ye antique towers, That crown the wat'ry glade.