So Perish All Who Do The Like

Know Then, Unnumber'd Spirits Round Thee Fly, The Light Militia Of The Lower Sky.

The Soul, Uneasy And Confin'd From Home, Rests And Expatiates In A Life To Come.

Of All Affliction Taught A Lover Yet, 'tis True The Hardest Science To Forget.

But Thousands Die Without Or This Or That, Die, And Endow A College Or A Cat.

Our Rural Ancestors, With Little Blest, Patient Of Labor When The End Was Rest, Indulged The Day That Housed Their Annual Grain, With Feasts, And Off'rings, And A Thankful Strain.