The soft whispers of the God in man.
Beautiful as sweet, And young as beautiful, and soft as young, And gay as soft, and innocent as gay!
The melancholy ghosts of dead renown, Whispering faint echoes of the world's applause.
Give me, indulgent gods with mind serene, And guiltless heart, to range the sylvan scene, No splendid poverty, no smiling care, No well-bred hate, or servile grandeur, there.
Ne'er to meet, or ne'er to part, is peace.
Sense is our helmet, wit is but the plume; The plume exposes, 'tis our helmet saves. Sense is the diamond, weighty, solid, sound; When cut by wit, it casts a brighter beam; Yet, wit apart, it is a diamond still.