Absent Or Dead, Still Let A Friend

Lo! The Poor Indian, Whose Untutored Mind Sees God In Clouds, Or Hears Him In The Wind.

See! From The Brake The Whirring Pheasant Springs, And Mounts Exulting On Triumphant Wings; Short Is His Joy! He Feels The Fiery Wound, Flutters In Blood, And Panting Beats The Ground.

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.

Superstition Is The Spleen Of The Soul.

Others Import Yet Nobler Arts From France, Teach Kings To Fiddle, And Make Senates Dance.