Dower of woe! a rich but fatal boon, 235
The “gilding fretted from the toy too soon;”
Is this thy wreck, a beacon, raised to tell
How vain the wealth—the pomp—we love so well?
How nothing all the splendour and the taste,
Once redolent upon this mournful waste! 240
Turn to your humbler roofs! and bless your lot,
Ye, who can claim the bliss-ennobled cot!
If, ’neath the russet thatch and lowly dome,
Peace—and her sister virtue, make their home;