At the close of the day, when the hamlet is still And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove, When nought but the torrent is heard on the hill And nought but the nightingale's song in the grove.
James Beattie
But when shall spring visit the mouldering urn? Oh when shall it dawn on the night of the grave?
James Beattie
At the close of the day when the hamlet is still, And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove, When naught but the torrent is heard on the hill, And naught but the nightingales song in the grove.
James Beattie
Zealous, yet modest; innocent, though free; Patient of toil, serene amidst alarms; Inflexible in faith, invincible in arms.
James Beattie
Ah, who can tell how hard it is to climb The steep where Fames proud temple shines afar?
James Beattie
When squint-eyed Slander plies the unhallow'd tongue, From poison'd maw when Treason weaves his line, And Muse apostate (infamy to song!) Grovels, low muttering, at Sedition's shrine.
James Beattie