Though Triumphs Were To Generals Only Due,

Now Warm In Love, Now With'ring In My Bloom Lost In A Convent's Solitary Gloom!

The Approach Of Night The Skies Yet Blushing With Departing Light, When Falling Dews With Spangles Deck'd The Glade, And The Low Sun Had Lengthen'd Ev'ry Shade.

Fine Sense And Exalted Sense Are Not Half So Useful As Common Sense.

And More Than Echoes Talk Along The Walls.

The Sound Must Seem An Echo To The Sense.