Virtue Alone Is Happiness Below.

Hope Springs Eternal In The Human Breast; Man Never Is, But Always To Be Blest. The Soul, Uneasy, And Confin'd From Home, Rest And Expatiates In A Life To Come. Lo, The Poor Indian! Whose Untutor'd Mind Sees God In Clouds, Or Hears Him In The Wind; His Soul Proud Science Never Taught To Stray Far As The Solar Walk Or Milky Way; Yet Simple Nature To His Hope Has Giv'n, Behind The Cloud-topp'd Hill, An Humbler Heav'n.

Thus Let Me Live, Unseen, Unknown, Thus Unlamented Let Me Die, Steal From The World, And Not A Stone Tell Where I Lie.

The Blest To-day Is As Completely So, As Who Began A Thousand Years Ago.

Sole Judge Of Truth, In Endless Error Hurled: / The Glory, Jest, And Riddle Of The World!

Where'er You Walk Cool Gales Shall Fan The Glade, Trees Where You Sit Shall Crowd Into A Shade. Where'er You Tread The Blushing Flowers Shall Rise, And All Things Flourish Where You Turn Your Eyes.