And Better Had They Ne'er

Each Must Drain His Share Of Pleasure, Share Of Pain.

Breathes There The Man, With Soul So Dead, Who Never To Himself Hath Said, This Is My Own, My Native Land! Whose Heart Hath Ne'er Within Him Burn'd, As Home His Footsteps He Hath Turn'd From Wandering On A Foreign Strand! If Such There Breathe, Go Mark Him Well; For Him No Minstrel Raptures Swell; High Though His Titles, Proud His Name, Boundless His Wealth As Wish Can Claim; Despite Those Titles, Power, And Pelf, The Wretch, Concentred All In Self, Living, Shall Forfeit Fair Renown, And, Doubly Dying, Shall Go Down To The Vile Dust, From Whence He Sprung, Unwept, Unhonor'd, And Unsung.

If A Faultless Poem Could Be Produced, I Am Satisfied It Would Tire The Critics Themselves; And Annoy The Whole Reading World With The Spleen.

Blessed Be His Name, Who Hath Appointed The Quiet Night To Follow The Busy Day, And The Calm Sleep To Refresh The Wearied Limbs And To Compose The Troubled Spirit.

The Heart-sick Faintness Of The Hope Delayed!