The love of praise, howe'er conceal'd by art, Reigns more or less, and glows in ev'ry heart.
Joys season'd high, and tasting strong of guilt.
Prayer ardent opens heaven.
On every thorn, delightful wisdom grows, In every rill a sweet instruction flows.
The soul of man was made to walk the skies.
We bleed, we tremble; we forget, we smile - The mind turns fool, before the cheek is dry