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Poem	He that's ungrateful, has no guilt but one; All other crimes may pass for virtues in him. - YOUNG. I COULD have borne affliction's sharpest thorn; The sting of malicepoverty's deep wound; The sneers of vulgar pride, the idiot's scorn; Neglected Love, false Friendship's treach'rous sound; I could, with patient smile, extract the dart Base calumny had planted in my heart; The fangs of envy; agonizing pain; ALL, ALL, nor should my steady soul complain: E'en had relentless FATE, with cruel pow'r, Darken'd the sunshine of each youthful day; While from my path she snatch'd each transient flow'r. Not one soft sigh my sorrow should betray; But where INGRATITUDE'S fell poisons pour, HOPE shrinks subduedand LIFE'S BEST JOYS DECAY.
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