Count Rumford's Essays
Reading edition
These, Virtue, are thy triumphs, that adorn Fitliest our nature, and bespeak us born For loftiest action; not to gaze and run From clime to clime; or batten in the sun, Dragging a drony flight from flower to flower, Like summer insects in a gaudy hour; Nor yet o'er lovesick tales with fancy range, And cry, ' 'Tis pitiful,'tis passing strange!' But on life's varied views to look around, And raise expiring sorrow from the ground: And he who thus hath borne his part assign'd In the sad fellowship of human kind, Or for a moment soothed the bitter pain Of a poor brother has not lived in vain.
1796
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