A Certain Portion Of The Human Race

When Eve Upon The First Of Men The Apple Press'd With Specious Cant, Oh! What A Thousand Pities Then That Adam Was Not Adamant!

And There Is Even A Happiness That Makes The Heart Afraid.

Father Of Rosy Day, No More Thy Clouds Of Incense Rise; But Waking Flow'rs, At Morning Hours, Give Out Their Sweets To Meet Thee In The Skies.

So Mayst Thou Live, Dear! Many Years, In All The Bliss That Life Endears

There Is Not A String Attuned To Mirth But Has Its Chord Of Melancholy.