Spring Hangs Her Infant Blossoms On The

A Glory Gilds The Sacred Page, Majestic Like The Sun, It Gives A Light To Every Age, It Gives, But Borrows None.

But, Oh, Thou Bounteous Giver Of All Good, Thou Art, Of All Thy Gifts, Thyself Thy Crown!

Fancy, Like The Finger Of A Clock, Runs The Great Circuit, And Is Still At Home.

His Wit Invites You By His Looks To Come, But When You Knock, It Never Is At Home.

Man On The Dubious Waves Of Error Toss'd.