Lo! where the Moon along the skySails with her happy destiny;Oft is she hid from mortal eyeOr dimly seen,But when the clouds asunder flyHow bright her mien! Far different we—a froward race,Thousands though rich in Fortune's graceWith cherished sullenness of paceTheir way pursue,Ingrates who wear a smileless faceThe whole year through. If kindred humours e'er …
