Ungentle world, where many snares beset
The path of manhood. Ay, ’tis joy to know
That the Eolian lyre of thy young soul
Gives out its music in the Eden clime,
Unvisited by earth’s cold, bitter winds,
Its poison-dews, its fogs, its winter rains,
Its tempests and its lightnings.
My sweet child,
Thou art no more a blossom of the earth,
But, oh! the thought of thee is yet a spell