1. Though I profess no skill in verse,
Yet grant whate’er my numbers may rehearse,

2. Be it but little or be it much;
For deep within my heart there lies, methinks,

3. A sea of knowledge, whose each wave and surge,
Now bears along some fragmentary thought

4. In prose or verse. And did I own the gold
To squander, many slaves would soon be bought

5. To eulogize you all in manifold.
But thanks to God! my soul is satisfied;