Which, hovering o’er man’s little life,
Diffuses poison from afar,
Cold hate, dull strife.
Oh, lost the goodly growing years!
The years that shape a nation most!
Wasted in faction, drowned in tears,
Lost, lost, all lost!
“Yet, stay!” some urge, “such words estrange,
Hope’s freer, happier spirit blights,
Wisdom would take a larger range,