My cradle, was the couch of care,
And sorrow rock'd me in it; Fate seem'd her saddest robe to wear, On the first day, that saw me there, And darkly shadow'd with despair,
My earliest minute.
E'en then the griefs I now possess,
As natal boons were given; And the fair form of happiness, Which hover'd round, intent to bless, Scar'd by the phantoms of distress,
Flew back to heaven!
For I was made in joy's despite,
And meant for misery's slave; And all my hours of brief delight Flew, like the speedy winds of night, Which soon shall veil their sullen flight
Across my grave! Lord Stranqford's Translation Of Camoens.
Le plus malheureux de tous les homines est celui qui croit de 1' etre, car le malheur depend moins des choses qu' on soufire, que de 1* impatience avec laquelle on augmente son malheur. Fenelok.
Was ever a great discovery prosecuted, or an important benefit conferred upon the human race, by him, who was incapable of standing, and thinking, and feeling alone 1
