Each Age Has Deemed The New-born Year

Many Miles Away There's A Shadow On The Door Of A Cottage On The Shore Of A Dark Scottish Lake.

High Minds, Of Native Pride And Force, Most Deeply Feel Thy Pangs, Remorse; Fear, For Their Scourge, Means Villains Have, Thou Art The Torturer Of The Brave!

Woe To The Youth Whom Fancy Gains, Winning From Reason's Hand The Reins, Pity And Woe! For Such A Mind Is Soft Contemplative, And Kind.

Just At The Age 'twixt Boy And Youth, When Thought Is Speech, And Speech Is Truth.

Lightly From Fair To Fair He Flew, And Loved To Plead, Lament, And Sue; Suit Lightly Won, And Short-lived Pain, For Monarchs Seldom Sigh In Vain.