II.

Happy, ye sons of busy life, Who, equal to the bustling strife, No other view regard! Ev'n when the wished end's deny'd, Yet while the busy means are ply'd, They bring their own reward: Whilst I, a hope-abandon'd wight, Unfitted with an aim, Meet ev'ry sad returning night And joyless morn the same; You, bustling, and justling, Forget each grief and pain; I, listless, yet restless, Find every prospect vain.