Classic Poem

Say, was it sweet in cradled rest to lie,
And 'scape the ills that older regions know?
Prolong the vision'd trance of infancy,
And hide from manhood's toil, mischance and wo?
Sweet, by the margin of thy sounding streams
Freely to rove, and nurse illusive dreams,
Nor taste the fruits on thorny trees that grow?
The evil, and the sorrow, and the crime,
That make the harass'd earth grow old before her time?