Religion, If In Heavenly Truths Attired, Needs

Even In The Stifling Bosom Of The Town, A Garden, In Which Nothing Thrives, Has Charms That Soothes The Rich Possessor; Much Consol'd, That Here And There Some Sprigs Of Mournful Mint, Or Nightshade, Or Valerian, Grace The Well He Cultivates.

Be It A Weakness, It Deserves Some Praise, We Love The Play-place Of Our Early Days; The Scene Is Touching, And The Heart Is Stone, That Feels Not At That Sight, And Feels At None.

Ceremony Leads Her Bigots Forth, Prepared To Fight For Shadows Of No Worth. While Truths, On Which Eternal Things Depend, Can Hardly Find A Single Friend.

Men Deal With Life As Children With Their Play, Who First Misuse, Then Cast Their Toys Away.

Great Offices Will Have Great Talents, And God Gives To Every Man The Virtue, Temper, Understanding, Taste, That Lifts Him Into Life, And Lets Him Fall Just In The Niche He Was Ordained To Fill.