Hands, that the rod of empire might have swayed, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre. - Thomas Gray

Fair laughs the morn, and soft the zephyr blows, While proudly riding o'er the azure realm In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes; Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm; Regardless of the sweeping whirlwind's sway, That, hushed in grim repose, expects his evening prey.

No further seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailties from their dread abode There they alike in trembling hope repose), The bosom of his Father and his God.

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