O ye, whose hours in jocund train advance,
Whose spirits to the song of gladness dance,
Who flowery fields in endless view survey,
Glittering in beams of visionary day;
O yet while Fate delays th’ impending blow,
Be roused to thought, anticipate the woe;
Lest, like the lightning’s glance, the sudden ill
Flash to confound, and penetrate to kill.
Beattie.
O reader, had you in your mind,