And Hie Him Home, At Evening's Close,

Not All That Tempts Your Wandering Eyes And Heedless Hearts, Is Lawful Prize; Nor All That Glisters Gold.

Visions Of Glory, Spare My Aching Sight! Ye Unborn Ages, Crowd Not On My Soul!

The Hues Of Bliss More Brightly Glow, Chastis'd By Sabler Tints Of Woe.

Far From The Madding Crowd's Ignoble Strife.

But Knowledge To Their Eyes Her Ample Page Rich With The Spoils Of Time Did Ne'er Unroll; Chill Penury Repressed Their Noble Rage, And Froze The Genial Current Of The Soul.