Thought would destroy their paradise.
And hie him home, at evening's close, To sweet repast and calm repose.
Visions of glory, spare my aching sight! Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!
A fav'rite has no friend!
Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate, Beneath the good how far,-but far above the great.
From toil he wins his spirits light, From busy day the peaceful night; Rich, from the very want of wealth, In heaven's best treasures, peace and health.