So runs the story,
And, in vain self-glory,
Some Saints would sneer at Gubbins for his blindness—
But what the better are their pious saws
To ailing souls, than dry hee-haws,
Without the milk of human kindness?
[TO MY DAUGHTER][16]
ON HER BIRTHDAY.
Dear Fanny! nine long years ago,
While yet the morning sun was low,