As The Twig Is Bent, So Grows

Good God! How Often Are We To Die Before We Go Quite Off This Stage? In Every Friend We Lose A Part Of Ourselves, And The Best Part.

Fickle Fortune Reigns, And, Undiscerning, Scatters Crowns And Chains.

Lend, Lend Your Wings! I Mount! I Fly! O Grave! Where Is Thy Victory? O Death! Where Is Thy Sting?

Religion Blushing, Veils Her Sacred Fires, And Unawares Morality Expires.

Oh, When Shall Britain, Conscious Of Her Claim, Stand Emulous Of Greek And Roman Fame? In Living Medals See Her Wars Enroll'd, And Vanquished Realms Supply Recording Gold?