Ah, no!—suppress th’ ungrateful tale—
O’er every frailty, every fault,
Oblivion, draw thy friendly veil.
Tell rather what transcendent joy
Awaits them on th’ immortal shore,
If well they Summer’s strength employ,
And well distribute Autumn’s store.
Tell them, if Virtue crown their bloom,
Time shall the happy period bring,
When the dark Winter of the tomb