What joy is better than the news of friends?
Of what I call God, And fools call Nature.
Autumn wins you best by this its mute appeal to sympathy for its decay.
The great beacon light God sets in all, the conscience of each bosom.
Generations pass while some tree stands, and old families last not three oaks.
Better have failed in the high aim, as I, Than vulgarly in the low aim succeed As, God be thanked! I do not.