Science appears but what in truth she is, Not as our glory and our absolute boast, But as a succedaneum, and a prop To our infirmity.
A brotherhood of venerable trees.
What know we of the Blest above but that they sing, and that they love?
We meet thee, like a pleasant thought, When such are wanted.
Miss not the occasion; by the forelock take that subtle power, the never-halting time.
Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.