Art Still Followed Where Rome's Eagles Flew.

Behold The Groves That Shine With Silver Frost, Their Beauty Withered, And Their Verdure Lost!

Whate'er The Talents, Or Howe'er Designed, We Hang One Jingling Padlock On The Mind.

Is There A Parson Much Bemused In Beer, A Maudlin Poetess, A Rhyming Peer, A Clerk Foredoom'd His Father's Soul To Cross, Who Pens A Stanza When He Should Engross?

Love, Free As Air, At Sight Of Human Ties, Spreads His Light Wings, And In A Moment Flies.

Behold The Child, By Nature's Kindly Law, Pleased With A Rattle, Tickled With A Straw; Some Livelier Plaything Gives His Youth Delight, A Little Louder, But As Empty Quite; Scarfs, Garters, Gold, Amuse His Riper Stage, And Beads And Prayer-books Are The Toys Of Age. Pleased With This Bauble Still, As That Before, Till Tired He Sleeps, And Life's Poor Play Is O'er.