And these fair marks,—reluctant I relate,—
These lovely symbols, may be counterfeit.
There are who fill with brilliant plaints the page,
If a poor linnet meet the gunner’s rage;
There are who for a dying fawn deplore,
As if friend, parent, country, were no more;
Who boast, quick rapture trembling in their eye,
If from a spider’s snare they snatch a fly;
There are whose well-sung plaints each breast inflame,
And break all hearts—but his from whence they came.”