I shall be but a shrimp of an author.

Youth smiles without any reason. It is one of its chiefest charms.

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.

When love could teach a monarch to be wise, And gospel-light first dawn'd from Bullen's eyes.

Alas, regardless of their doom, the little victims play! No sense have they of ills to come nor care beyond today.

Chill penury repress'd their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.