Is there a parson much bemused in beer, a maudlin poetess, a rhyming peer, a clerk foredoom'd his father's soul to cross, who pens a stanza when he should engross?

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.

Who combats bravely is not therefore brave, He dreads a death-bed like the meanest slave: Who reasons wisely is not therefore wise,- His pride in reasoning, not in acting lies.

Age and want sit smiling at the gate.

Sure of their qualities and demanding praise, more go to ruined fortunes than are raised.

Slave to no sect, who takes no private road, But looks through Nature up to Nature's God.

Who taught that heaven-directed spire to rise?