The gay motes that people the sunbeams.
They who have put out the people's eyes reproach them of their blindness.
Th' ethereal mould Incapable of stain would soon expel Her mischief, and purge off the baser fire, Victorious. Thus repuls'd, our final hope Is flat despair.
Most men admire Virtue who follow not her lore.
Morn, Wak'd by the circling hours, with rosy hand Unbarr'd the gates of light.
Come to the sunset tree! The day is past and gone; The woodman's axe lies free, And the reaper's work is done.