The best of what we do and are, Just God, forgive!

O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird, Or but a wandering voice?

A light to guide, a rod To check the erring, and reprove.

On a fair prospect some have looked, And felt, as I have heard them say, As if the moving time had been A thing as steadfast as the scene On which they gazed themselves away.

"What is good for a bootless bene?" With these dark words begins my tale; And their meaning is, Whence can comfort spring When prayer is of no avail?

And mighty poets in their misery dead.

The child shall become father to the man.