Such Sober Certainty Of Waking Bliss.

Sweet Bird, That Shun The Noise Of Folly, Most Musical, Most Melancholy!

For No Falsehood Can Endure Touch Of Celestial Temper.

Her Silent Course Advance With Inoffensive Pace, That Spinning Sleeps On Her Soft Axle.

Heaven Is For Thee Too High To Know What Passes There; Be Lowly Wise. Think Only What Concerns Thee And Thy Being; Dream Not Of Other Worlds, What Creatures There Live, In What State, Condition, Or Degree, Contented That Thus Far Hath Been Revealed.

To-morrow To Fresh Woods, And Pastures New.