For When Was Public Virtue To Be

Just Knows, And Knows No More, Her Bible True,- A Truth The Brilliant Frenchman Never Knew.

Those Flimsy Webs That Break As Soon As Wrought, Attain Not To The Dignity Of Thought.

All Truth Is Precious, If Not All Divine; And What Dilates The Powers Must Needs Refine.

Words Learn'd By Rote A Parrot May Rehearse, But Talking Is Not Always To Converse, Not More Distinct From Harmony Divine The Constant Creaking Of A Country Sign.

Then Liberty, Like Day, Breaks On The Soul, And By A Flash From Heaven Fires All The Faculties With Glorious Joy.