We Frolic While 'tis May.

The Still Small Voice Of Gratitude.

Man's Feeble Race What Ills Await! Labour, And Penury, The Racks Of Pain, Disease, And Sorrow's Weeping Train, And Death, Sad Refuge From The Storms Of Fate!

The Hues Of Bliss More Brightly Glow, Chastis'd By Sabler Tints Of Woe.

For Who, To Dumb Forgetfulness A Prey, This Pleasing Anxious Being E'er Resign'd, Left The Warm Precincts Of The Cheerful Day, Nor Cast One Longing Ling'ring Look Behind?

Hands That The Rod Of Empire Might Have Sway'd, Or Waked To Ecstasy The Living Lyre.