A favorite has no friend!

Alas! regardless of their doom, The little victims play; No sense have they of ills to come, Nor care beyond to-day.

And read their history in a nation's eyes.

And shut the gates of mercy on mankind.

And to hie him home, at evening's close, To sweet repast, and calm repose. From toil we wins his spirits light, From busy day the peaceful night; Rich, from the very want of wea ...

And weep the more, because I weep in vain.

As to posterity, I may ask (with somebody whom I have forgot) what has it ever done to oblige me?

Blasted with excess of light.

Chill penury repress'd their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.

E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.