Behold! in Liberty's unclouded blaze, We lift our heads, a race of other days.

Trade hardly deems the busy day begun, Till his keen eye along the sheet has run; The blooming daughter throws her needle by, And reads her schoolmate's marriage with a sigh; While the grave mother puts her glasses on, And gives a tear to some old crony gone.

The preacher, too, his Sunday theme lays down, To know what last new folly fills the town; Lively or sad, life's meanest, mightiest things, The fate of fighting cocks, or fighting king.

Hate shuts her soul when dove-eyed mercy pleads

Yes, social friend, I love thee well, In learned doctor's spite; Thy clouds all other clouds dispel, And lap me in delight.

Through life's dark road his sordid way he wends; an incarnation of fat dividends