At home the hateful names of parties cease, And factious souls are wearied into peace.

Such subtle covenants shall be made, Till peace itself is war in masquerade.

Beauty, like ice, our footing does betray; Who can tread sure on the smooth, slippery way: Pleased with the surface, we glide swiftly on, And see the dangers that we cannot shun.

And love's the noblest frailty of the mind.

When rattling bones together fly, / From the four corners of the sky.

And all to leave, what with this toil he won, / To that unfeathered, two-legged thing, a son.