Now that doubt had entered my mind, I knew that (argh!) I'd have to do some digging. I googled the phrase... and was led to one of my favorite websites -- Bartleby.com: Great Books Online. Alas, the doubt paid off because both guesses were wrong!
The line "ignorance is bliss" is contained in a poem2 by Thomas Gray (1716-1771)! The poem is entitled, "Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton College." While reading the poem, I was reminded about the beauty and comfort of childhood. How little we knew of the world... and that lack of knowledge -- that ignorance bestowed on us at childhood -- allowed us to remain carefree and happy, despite the pains and sorrows happening in the world around us at the time.
And, yes, as we grew more aware of our own lives and the lives of those around us... as we grew more aware of pain and anguish... and more importantly, as we grew aware of the causes of that pain and anguish... it became more difficult to hold onto our simple views of the universe. We could not ignore the injustices of our natural environment. We realized that we needed to decide which side of the coin we were going to devote our energies and ambitions.
Were we going to be part of the universal problem? Or would we, rather, attempt to be part of the universal solution? That was the decision that we each were forced to make. It is the decision which we each must make.
With this in mind, I present Gray's complete poem, in hopes that it may inpire others to reflect, as it caused me to do.
Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton College
YE distant spires, ye antique towers
That crown the watery glade,
Where grateful Science still adores
Her Henry's holy shade;
And ye, that from the stately brow 5
Of Windsor's heights th' expanse below
Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey,
Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among
Wanders the hoary Thames along
His silver-winding way: 10
Ah, happy hills! ah, pleasing shade!
Ah, fields belov'd in vain!
Where once my careless childhood stray'd,
A stranger yet to pain!
I feel the gales that from ye blow 15
A momentary bliss bestow,
As waving fresh their gladsome wing
My weary soul they seem to soothe,
And, redolent of joy and youth,
To breathe a second spring. 20
Say, Father Thames, for thou hast seen
Full many a sprightly race
Disporting on thy margent green
The paths of pleasure trace—
Who foremost now delight to cleave 25
With pliant arm, thy glassy wave?
The captive linnet which enthral?
What idle progeny succeed
To chase the rolling circle's speed
Or urge the flying ball? 30
While some on earnest business bent
Their murmuring labours ply
'Gainst graver hours that bring constraint
To sweeten liberty:
Some bold adventurers disdain 35
The limits of their little reign
And unknown regions dare descry:
Still as they run they look behind,
They hear a voice in every wind,
And snatch a fearful joy. 40
Gay hope is theirs by fancy fed,
Less pleasing when possest;
The tear forgot as soon as shed,
The sunshine of the breast:
Theirs buxom health, of rosy hue, 45
Wild wit, invention ever new,
And lively cheer, of vigour born;
The thoughtless day, the easy night,
The spirits pure, the slumbers light
That fly th' approach of morn. 50
Alas! regardless of their doom,
The little victims play;
No sense have they of ills to come,
Nor care beyond to-day:
Yet see how all around 'em wait 55
The ministers of human fate
And black Misfortune's baleful train!
Ah, show them where in ambush stand,
To seize their prey, the murderous band!
Ah, tell them they are men! 60
These shall the fury Passions tear,
The vultures of the mind,
Disdainful Anger, pallid Fear,
And Shame that skulks behind;
Or pining Love shall waste their youth, 65
Or Jealousy with rankling tooth
That inly gnaws the secret heart,
And Envy wan, and faded Care,
Grim-visaged comfortless Despair,
And Sorrow's piercing dart. 70
Ambition this shall tempt to rise,
Then whirl the wretch from high
To bitter Scorn a sacrifice
And grinning Infamy.
The stings of Falsehood those shall try, 75
And hard Unkindness' alter'd eye,
That mocks the tear it forced to flow;
And keen Remorse with blood defil'd,
And moody Madness laughing wild
Amid severest woe. 80
Lo, in the vale of years beneath
A griesly troop are seen,
The painful family of Death,
More hideous than their queen:
This racks the joints, this fires the veins, 85
That every labouring sinew strains,
Those in the deeper vitals rage;
Lo! Poverty, to fill the band
That numbs the soul with icy hand,
And slow-consuming Age. 90
To each his sufferings: all are men,
Condemn'd alike to groan—
The tender for another's pain,
Th' unfeeling for his own.
Yet, ah! why should they know their fate, 95
Since sorrow never comes too late,
And happiness too swiftly flies?
Thought would destroy their Paradise.
No more;—where ignorance is bliss,
'Tis folly to be wise. 100
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