The hours fled gladly by, as on the wings
Of woodland birds rejoicing. Now the muse
Of history would unfold her living page
And make the past the present; and anon
Some work of fiction, writ with moral aim,
Would stir their spirits, as with truthfulness
It shewed the workings of the human heart
And uttered wisdom whilst it gave delight.
Full oft the music of the poet’s page
Would spring to life again: his numbers sweet