Flowers, the sole luxury which nature knew

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

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?

With Thee in shady solitudes I walk, With Thee in busy, crowded cities talk, In every creature own Thy forming power, In each event Thy providence adore.