The Wretch Condemn'd With Life To Part,

In All My Wanderings Round This World Of Care, In All My Griefs-and God Has Given My Share- I Still Had Hopes My Latest Hours To Crown, Amidst These Humble Bowers To Lay Me Down.

So The Loud Torrent, And The Whirlwind's Roar, But Bind Him To His Native Mountains More.

Men May Be Very Learned, And Yet Very Miserable; It Is Easy To Be A Deep Geometrician, Or A Sublime Astronomer, But Very Difficult To Be A Good Man. I Esteem, Therefore, The Traveller Who Instructs The Heart, But Despise Him Who Only Indulges The Imagination. A Man Who Leaves Home To Mend Himself And Others, Is A Philosopher; But He Who Goes From Country To Country, Guided By The Blind Impulse Of Curiosity, Is Only A Vagabond.

They Say Women And Music Should Never Be Dated.

Sweet Was The Sound, When Oft, At Evening's Close, Up Yonder Hill The Village Murmur Rose; There As I Passed, With Careless Steps And Slow, The Mingling Notes Came Soften'd From Below; The Swain Responsive As The Milkmaid Sung, The Sober Herd That Low'd To Meet Their Young; The Noisy Geese That Gabbled O'er The Pool, The Playful Children Just Let Loose From School; The Watch-dog's Voice That Bay'd The Whispering Wind, And The Loud Laugh That Spoke The Vacant Mind; These All In Sweet Confusion Sought The Shade, And Fill'd Each Pause The Nightingale Had Made.