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HOU! whom Prosperity has always led O'er level paths, with moss and flow'rets strewn; For whom she still prepares a downy bed With roses scatter'd, and to thorns unknown, Wilt thou yet murmur at a mis-placed leaf? Think, ere thy irritable nerves repine, How many, born with feelings keen as thine, Taste all the sad vicissitudes of grief; How many steep in tears their scanty bread; Or, lost to reason, Sorrow's victims! rave: How many know not where to lay their head; While some are driven by anguish to the grave! Think; nor impatient at a feather's weight, Mar the uncommon blessings of thy fate!