In ourselves our safety must be sought. By our own right hand it must be wrought.

At length the man perceives it die away, And fade into the light of common day.

Earth has not anything to show more fair.

Often have I sighed to measure By myself a lonely pleasure,- Sighed to think I read a book, Only read, perhaps, by me.

And when a damp Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand The thing became a trumpet; whence he blew Soul-animating strains,-alas! too few.

Rapine, avarice, expense, This is idolatry; and these we adore; Plain living and high thinking are no more.

The moving accident is not my trade; To freeze the blood I have no ready arts: 'Tis my delight, alone in summer shade, To pipe a simple song for thinking hearts.