Peace And Rest At Length Have Come,

A Man That's Fond Precociously Of Stirring , :;:; Must Be A Spoon.

For Man May Pious Texts Repeat, And Yet Religion Have No Inward Seat

When He Is Forsaken, Withered And Shaken, What Can An Old Man Do But Die?

A Moment's Thinking Is An Hour In Words.

Father Of Rosy Day, No More Thy Clouds Of Incense Rise; But Waking Flow'rs, At Morning Hours, Give Out Their Sweets To Meet Thee In The Skies.