Alas! regardless of their doom,
The little victims play;
No sense have they of ills to come,
Nor care beyond to-day.
No more: where ignorance is bliss, 'Tis folly to be wise.
Progress of Poesy.
O'er her warm cheek and rising bosom move
The bloom of young Desire, and purple light of Love.
Ope the sacred source of sympathetic tears. Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.