From every bland amusement, wont to sooth
The youthful breast; except when father Time,
In joyful change, rolls round the festive hour,
That gives this meagre, pining figure back
To parent fondness, and its native roofs!
Fir’d with the thought, then, then, my towering son!
Rises superior to its load, and spurns
Its proud oppressors; frantic with delight,
My fancy riots in successive scenes
Of bliss and pleasures: plans and schemes are laid