In Buskined Measures Move Pale Grief And

No Further Seek His Merits To Disclose, Or Draw His Frailties From Their Dread Abode (there They Alike In Trembling Hope Repose), The Bosom Of His Father And His God.

Now As The Paradisiacal Pleasures Of The Mahometans Consist In Playing Upon The Flute And Lying With Houris, Be Mine To Read Eternal New Romances Of Marivaux And Crebillon.

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

To Brisk Notes In Cadence Beating, Glance Their Many-twinkling Feet.

From Toil He Wins His Spirits Light, From Busy Day The Peaceful Night; Rich, From The Very Want Of Wealth, In Heaven's Best Treasures, Peace And Health.