This dead of midnight is the noon of thought

Flowers, the sole luxury which nature knew, In Eden's pure and guiltless garden grew.[…] Gay without toil, and lovely without art, They spring to cheer the sense, and glad the heart.

Man is the nobler growth our realms supply, And souls are ripen'd in our northern sky.

O gently guide my pilgrim feet To find thy hermit cell; Where in some pure and equal sky Beneath thy soft indulgent eye The modest virtues dwell.

It is to hope, tho' hope were lost.

Child of mortality, whence comest thou? Why is thy countenance sad, and why are thine eyes red with weeping?

I read his awful name, emblazon'd high With golden letters on th' illumin'd sky.