He touch'd the tender stops of various quills, With eager thought warbling his Doric lay.
Socrates... Whom well inspir'd the oracle pronounc'd Wisest of men.
Flowers of all hue, and without thorn the rose.
From haunted spring and dale Edg'd with poplar pale The parting genius is with sighing sent.
Morn, Wak'd by the circling hours, with rosy hand Unbarr'd the gates of light.
A man may be ungrateful, but the human race is not so.