And Hie Him Home, At Evening's Close,

Implores The Passing Tribute Of A Sigh.

T'was Spring, T'was Summer, All Was Gay Now Autumn Bears A Cloud Brow The Flowers Of Spring Are Swept Way And Summer Fruits Desert The Bough

Her Track, Where'er The Goddess Roves, Glory Pursue, And Gen'rous Shame, Th' Unconquerable Mind, And Freedom's Holy Flame.

If The Best Man's Faults Were Written On His Forehead, He Would Draw His Hat Over His Eyes.

Ah, Tell Them They Are Men!