Such Sober Certainty Of Waking Bliss.

Time Will Run Back And Fetch The Age Of Gold.

Morn, Wak'd By The Circling Hours, With Rosy Hand Unbarr'd The Gates Of Light.

O Fleeting Joys Of Paradise, Dear Bought With Lasting Woes!

Nothing Is Here For Tears, Nothing To Wail Or Knock The Breast, No Weakness, No Contempt, Dispraise, Or Blame,-nothing But Well And Fair, And What May Quiet Us In A Death So Noble.

True It Is That Covetousness Is Rich, Modesty Starves.