"৳ IN flower of youth, with love of learning blest, My verse was wont in cheerful strains to flow; But now, by Fortune's cruel rage-opprest, I mourn in numbers suited to my woe.The sacred Nine, companions of my grief. Their soften'd features wet with many a tear. Try all their pleasing art to give relief, And whisper verse mellifluous in my ear,They, faithful friends, still trace my woful ways, Regardless of the haughty tyrant's rage, Whilom, the glory of my youthful days. Now, the chief solace of my drooping age.Silver'd my hairs, and furrow'd deep my brow. Unbrac'd each nerve, tho' scarce beyond my prime. With rapid haste borne on the wings of wo. Old age advances, not on wings of time.Happy the man, with health and affluence blest, Into whose halcyon days intrudes not death; From ceaseless wo, still happier who finds rest. And yields to fate, long-wish'd, his willing breath.Death, kind deliv'rer from all grief and pain. Why stays thy hand my weeping eyes to close? Thy aid, ah cruel! I implore in vain; Deaf to my cries, thou wilt not give repose.With gladd'ning beams, while treach'rous fortune, shone, Disease had almost snatch'd my bliss away, With every joy, since now the wanton's flown, Why does slow time still lengthen out my day?Why did you boast of my exalted state? Mistaken friends, were ye not much to blame? Learn this great truth, from my disastrous fate, All human bliss is but an empty name."