Thomas Gray

Alas! regardless of their doom,
The little victims play;
No sense have they of ills to come,
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Alas! regardless of their doom,
The little victims play;
No sense have they of ills to come,
Nor care beyond to-day.

Chill penury repress'd their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the soul.

Chill penury repress'd their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the soul.

The meanest floweret of the vale,
The simplest note that swells the gale,
The common sun, the read more

The meanest floweret of the vale,
The simplest note that swells the gale,
The common sun, the air, the skies,
To him are open paradise.

From Helicon's harmonious springs
A thousand rills their mazy progress take.

From Helicon's harmonious springs
A thousand rills their mazy progress take.

To brisk notes in cadence beating
Glance their many-twinkling feet.

To brisk notes in cadence beating
Glance their many-twinkling feet.