What but an empty pageant of sweet noise?
’Tis past: and all that it has left behind
Is but an echo dwelling in the ear
Of the toy-taken fancy, and beside,
A void and countless hour in life’s brief day.
But ill accords my verse with the delights
Of this gay month:—and see the Villagers
Assembling jocund in their best attire
To grace this genial morn. Now I descend
To join the worldly crowd; perchance to talk,