Man is the nobler growth our realms supply, And souls are ripened in our northern sky.
The first pale blossom of the unripened year.
Of her scorn the maid repented, And the shepherd - of his love.
It would be difficult to determine whether the age is growing better or worse; for I think our plays are growing like sermons, and our sermons like plays.
Society than solitude is worse, And man to man is still the greatest curse.
But every act in consequence of our faith, strengthens faith.