A Man That's Fond Precociously Of Stirring

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!

Oh! God! That Bread Should Be So Dear, And Flesh And Blood So Cheap!

When He Is Forsaken, Withered And Shaken, What Can An Old Man Do But Die?

What Is A Modern Poet's Fate? / To Write His Thoughts Upon A Slate; / The Critic Spits On What Is Done, / Gives It A Wipe - And All Is Gone.

Alas For The Rarity Of Christian Charity Under The Sun!