Where Nature's end of language is declin'd, And men talk only to conceal the mind.

This is the bud of being, the dim dawn, The twilight of our day, the vestibule; Life's theatre as yet is shut, and death, Strong death, alone can heave the massy bar, This gross impediment of clay remove, And make us embryos of existence free.

Some go to Church, proud humbly to repent, And come back much more guilty than they went: One way they look, another way they steer, Pray to the Gods; but would have Mortals hear; And when their sins they set sincerely down, They'll find that their Religion has been one.

On every thorn, delightful wisdom grows, In every rill a sweet instruction flows.

What tender force, what dignity divine, what virtue consecrating every feature; around that neck what dross are gold and pearl!

Life's cares are comforts; such by Heav'n design'd; He that hath none must make them, or be wretched.

'T is greatly wise to talk with our past hours, And ask them what report they bore to heaven.