Let beeves and home-bred kine partake The sweets of Burn-mill meadow; The swan on still St. Mary's Lake Float double, swan and shadow!

To be a Prodigal's favourite,-then, worse truth, A Miser's pensioner,-behold our lot!

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

This City now doth like a garment wear The beauty of the morning; silent, bare, Ships, towers, domes, theatres and temples lie Open unto the fields and to the sky; All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.

The mind of man is a thousand times more beautiful than the earth on which he dwells.

And the most difficult of tasks to keep Heights which the soul is competent to gain.

But how can he expect that others should Build for him, sow for him, and at his call Love him, who for himself will take no heed at all?