A Field Of Glory Is A Field

So Vast Is Art, So Narrow Human Wit.

Hope Springs Eternal In The Human Breast; Man Never Is, But Always To Be Blest. The Soul, Uneasy, And Confin'd From Home, Rest And Expatiates In A Life To Come. Lo, The Poor Indian! Whose Untutor'd Mind Sees God In Clouds, Or Hears Him In The Wind; His Soul Proud Science Never Taught To Stray Far As The Solar Walk Or Milky Way; Yet Simple Nature To His Hope Has Giv'n, Behind The Cloud-topp'd Hill, An Humbler Heav'n.

Beauties In Vain Their Pretty Eyes May Roll; Charms Strike The Sight, But Merit Wins The Soul.

Heaven Breathes Thro' Ev'ry Member Of The Whole One Common Blessing, As One Common Soul.

O Peace! How Many Wars Were Waged In Thy Name.