Hadst thou a genius on thy peak, What tales, white-headed Ben, Could'st thou of ancient ages speak,
How delicious is the winning Of a kiss at love's beginning, When two mutual hearts are sighing
When first the fiery-mantled sun His heavenly race begun to run; Round the earth and ocean blue,
Men of England! who inherit Rights that cost your sires their blood! Men whose undegenerate spirit
Come, maids and matrons, to caress Wiesbaden's gentle hind; And, smiling, deck its glossy neck
All worldly shapes shall melt in gloom, The Sun himself must die, Before this mortal shall assume
Never wedding, ever wooing, Still a love-lorn heart pursuing, Read you not the wrong you 're doing
The more we live, more brief appear Our life's succeeding stages; A day to childhood seems a year,