Whoe'er He Be That Tells My Faults,

Oft, As In Airy Rings They Skim The Heath, The Clamtrous Lapwings Feel The Leaden Death; Oft, As The Mounting Larks Their Notes Prepare They Fall, And Leave Their Little Lives In Air.

Soft Is The Strain When Zephyr Gently Blows.

Thou Wert My Guide, Philosopher, And Friend.

Consult The Genius Of The Place In All.

Who Dare To Love Their Country, And Be Poor.