Beneath this grass-green mantle lies entom’d!
Cold is that nerve which harmoniz’d the lyre,
And all his bright’ning faculties consum’d:
Come then, such fallen excellence deplore,
His harp’s unstrung, his minstrelsy is o’er.
ODE TO HAPPINESS.
Tho’ all men aim at happiness,
And some their boasted schemes profess,
Yet few, alas! too few we find,