The fretful stir Unprofitable, and the fever of the world Have hung upon the beatings of my heart.

O dearer far than light and life are dear.

All that we behold is full of blessings.

A deep distress has humanised my soul.

Books! tis a dull and endless strife: Come, hear the woodland linnet, How sweet his music! on my life, There's more of wisdom in it.

'T is hers to pluck the amaranthine flower Of faith, and round the sufferer's temples bind Wreaths that endure affliction's heaviest shower, And do not shrink from sorrow's keenest wind.

Tis said, fantastic ocean doth enfold The likeness of whate'er on land is seen.