Sweet is the breath of vernal shower,/ The bee's collected treasure sweet,/ Sweet music's melting fall, but sweeter yet/ The still small voice of gratitude.
Rich with the spoils of time.
Can honor's voice provoke the silent dust, or flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of death?
Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate, Beneath the good how far,-but far above the great.
And moody madness laughing wild Amid severest woe.
Her track, where'er the goddess roves, Glory pursue, and gen'rous shame, Th' unconquerable mind, and freedom's holy flame.