Rustic herald of the spring

The man forget not, though in rags he lies, And know the mortal through a crown's disguise.

Can art, alas! or genius guide the head Where truth and freedom from the heart are fled? Can lesser wheels repeat their native stroke, When the prime function of the soul is broke?

O'er yonder eastern hill the twilight pale Walks forth from darkness; and the God of day, With bright Astraea seated by his side, Waits yet to leave the ocean.

Youth calls for Pleasure, Pleasure calls for Love.

Seeks painted trifles and fantastic toys, And eagerly pursues imaginary joys.

Pall on her temper, like a twice-told tale.