The merry morn no rapture could impart,
Nor converse sweet of friends his hours beguile;
In vain could beauty warm his aching heart,
Or on his cold-wan cheek awake a smile.
Yet oft we slight thy worth, O, blessed Health!
Poor mortals as we are, till thou art flown;
And thy sweet joys, more dear than fame or wealth,
Touch not our hearts, but pass unfelt, unknown.
The joys, without whose aid whate’er of blest,
Or great, or fair, the heavens to man ordain,