And made that age the chosen child of fame:
The Golden Age recalled the happy hour,
When man walked sinless in the first, sweet bower.
Such was the glorious golden Age of yore,—
That golden Age of virtue is no more.
The modern, brighter, happier Age of Gold;—
Oh! dost thou mean that Vice lies dead and cold
In her detested grave, where none will shed,
Not even her slaves, a tear above her, dead—
That Virtue lives—the rainbow child of heaven,