A happy youth, and their old age Is beautiful and free.
Father! - to God himself we cannot give a holier name.
The moving accident is not my trade; To freeze the blood I have no ready arts: 'Tis my delight, alone in summer shade, To pipe a simple song for thinking hearts.
For youthful faults ripe virtues shall atone.
Be mild, and cleave to gentle things, thy glory and thy happiness be there.
The earth was all before me. With a heart Joyous, nor scared at its own liberty, I look about; and should the chosen guide Be nothing better than a wandering cloud, I cannot miss my way.