In every age and every man there is something to praise as well as to blame.
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At the close of the day when the hamlet is still, and mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove, when naught but the torrent is heard on the hill, and naught but the nightingale's song in the grove.
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And beauty immortal awakes from the tomb.
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No jealousy their dawn of love overcast, nor blasted were their wedded days with strife; each season looked delightful as it past, to the fond husband and the faithful wife.
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And beauty immortal awakes from the tomb.
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At the close of the day when the hamlet is still, and mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove, when naught but the torrent is heard on the hill, and naught but the nightingale's song in the grove.
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He thought as a sage, though he felt like a man.
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From labour health, from health contentment spring; contentment opes the source of every joy.
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How sweet the words of Truth, breathed from the lips of Love.
