How Low, How Little Are The Proud,

The Applause Of List'ning Senates To Command, The Threats Of Pain And Ruin To Despise, To Scatter Plenty O'er A Smiling Land, And Read Their History In A Nation's Eyes.

If The Best Man's Faults Were Written On His Forehead, He Would Draw His Hat Over His Eyes.

Low On His Funeral Couch He Lies!

Ah, Happy Hills! Ah, Pleasing Shade! Ah, Fields Beloved In Vain! Where Once My Careless Childhood Stray'd, A Stranger Yet To Pain! I Feel The Gales That From Ye Blow A Momentary Bliss Bestow.

Her Track, Where'er The Goddess Roves, Glory Pursue, And Gen'rous Shame, Th' Unconquerable Mind, And Freedom's Holy Flame.