Some Fleeting Good, That Mocks Me With

Fortune Is Ever Seen Accompanying Industry.

In My Time, The Follies Of The Town Crept Slowly Among Us, But Now They Travel Faster Than A Stagecoach.

All The Bloomy Flush Of Life Is Fled.

Sweet Was The Sound, When Oft, At Evening's Close, Up Yonder Hill The Village Murmur Rose; There As I Passed, With Careless Steps And Slow, The Mingling Notes Came Soften'd From Below; The Swain Responsive As The Milkmaid Sung, The Sober Herd That Low'd To Meet Their Young; The Noisy Geese That Gabbled O'er The Pool, The Playful Children Just Let Loose From School; The Watch-dog's Voice That Bay'd The Whispering Wind, And The Loud Laugh That Spoke The Vacant Mind; These All In Sweet Confusion Sought The Shade, And Fill'd Each Pause The Nightingale Had Made.

As For Disappointing Them I Should Not So Much Mind; But I Can't Abide To Disappoint Myself.