Hums in the sultry beam:
But thou—so active in thy play,
From parents absent far;—
Heed'st not the meddling cares of day,
Nor what their sorrows are.
'Tis thus, thought I, in childhood's morn
We think creation ours;
From sport to sport, our night is borne,
Like butterflies on flow'rs:
But when parental cares come round