That blessed mood in which the burthen of the mystery, in which the heavy and the weary weight of all this unintelligible world is lightened.
As high as we have mounted in delight, In our dejection do we sink as low.
To the solid ground Of nature trusts the Mind that builds for aye.
A happy youth, and their old age Is beautiful and free.
Worse than idle is compassion if it ends in tears and sighs.
Habit rules the unreflecting herd.