The rough-laid asphalte seems to rise and sink,
Where, under many a sharp maternal eye,
The youths and maidens of the village rink.
For them no more will croquet have delight,
The simple shuttlecock they will despise,
No more they’ll watch the winged arrow’s flight,
Nor draw the bow in quest of archer’s prize.
Let not ambition mock their simple style,
Nor from their thoughtless recreation shrink.
Nor Grandeur turn with half contemptuous smile