A Long Story.

The hues of bliss more brightly glow,

Chastised by sabler tints of woe.

Ode on the Pleasure arising from Vicissitude. Line 45.

The meanest floweret of the vale,

The simplest note that swells the gale,

The common sun, the air, the skies,

To him are opening paradise.

Ode on the Pleasure arising from Vicissitude. Line 53.

And hie him home, at evening's close,