The Blest To-day Is As Completely So,

Fly, Dotard, Fly! With Thy Wise Dreams And Fables Of The Sky.

The Approach Of Night The Skies Yet Blushing With Departing Light, When Falling Dews With Spangles Deck'd The Glade, And The Low Sun Had Lengthen'd Ev'ry Shade.

Men Would Be Angels, Angels Would Be Gods.

The Sound Must Seem An Echo To The Sense.

Pride, Where Wit Fails, Steps In To Our Defence, And Fills Up All The Mighty Void Of Sense.