'tis Not A Lip, Or Eye, We

And All Who Told It Added Something New, And All Who Heard It, Made Enlargements Too.

We Think Our Fathers Fools, So Wise We Grow. Our Wiser Sons, No Doubt Will Think Us So.

Search Then The Ruling Passion: This Clue, Once Found, Unravels All The Rest.

Leave Not A Foot Of Verse, A Foot Of Stone, A Page, A Grave, That They Can Call Their Own; But Spread, My Sons, Your Glory Thin Or Thick, On Passive Paper, Or On Solid Brick.

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