Not the smiles of affection can warm,
And dull are the splendors of wealth.
The pageant of empire is stale
That lifts men like gods o’er their race,
And the heart’s thrilling impulses fail
When Love beckons on to the chase.
Whate’er in itself joy can give,
Or that springs from sweet respite of pain,
That mortals or gods can receive,
Blest Hygeia! is found in thy train!