Wisdom, slow product of laborious years, 
The only fruit that life's cold winter bears; 
Thy sacred seeds in vain in youth we lay, 
By the fierce storm of passion torn away. 
Should some remain in a rich gen'rous soil, 
They long lie hid, and must be rais'd with toil; 
Faintly they struggle with inclement skies, 
No sooner born than the poor planter dies.