Such as the meeting soul may pierce, In notes with many a winding bout Of linked sweetness long drawn out.

In those vernal seasons of the year when the air is calm and pleasant, it were an injury and sullenness against nature not to go out and see her riches, and partake in her rejoicing with heaven and earth.

So may'st thou live, till like ripe fruit thou drop Into thy mother's lap.

How sweetly did they float upon the wings Of silence through the empty-vaulted night, At every fall smoothing the raven down Of darkness till it smiled!

Flowers of all hue, and without thorn the rose.

Yet I shall temper so Justice with mercy, as may illustrate most Them fully satisfy'd, and thee appease.

Our country is where ever we are well off.