Sorrow's Faded Form, And Solitude Behind.

Thought Would Destroy Their Paradise.

Beyond The Limits Of A Vulgar Fate, Beneath The Good How Far,-but Far Above The Great.

Hands That The Rod Of Empire Might Have Sway'd, Or Waked To Ecstasy The Living Lyre.

To Contemplation's Sober Eye. / Such Is The Race Of Man.

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.