And Truth Severe, By Fairy Fiction Drest.

We Frolic While 'tis May.

Each In His Narrow Cell Forever Laid, The Rude Forefathers Of The Hamlet Sleep.

Where'er The Oak's Thick Branches Stretch A Broader Browner Shade; Where'er The Rude And Moss-grown Beech O'er-canopies The Glade, Beside Some Water's Rushy Brink With Me The Muse Shall Sit, And Think.

Can Honor's Voice Provoke The Silent Dust, Or Flattery Soothe The Dull, Cold Ear Of Death?

Visions Of Glory, Spare My Aching Sight! Ye Unborn Ages, Crowd Not On My Soul!