Satire recoils whenever charged too high; round your own fame the fatal splinters fly.
Death loves a shining mark, a signal blow.
Of boasting more than of a bomb afraid, A soldier should be modest as a maid.
Amid my list of blessings infinite, stands this the foremost, "that my heart has bled."
What tender force, what dignity divine, what virtue consecrating every feature; around that neck what dross are gold and pearl!
Beautiful as sweet, And young as beautiful, and soft as young, And gay as soft, and innocent as gay!