Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast

Just as the mind the erring sense believes, The erring mind, in turn, the sense deceives.

Patience lingers o'er the weedy shore, And, mutely waiting till the storm be o'er, Turns to young Hope, who still directs his eye To some blue spot, just breaking in the sky!

And oh if there be an Elysium on earth, It is this, it is this!

Faintly as tolls the evening chime, Our voices keep tune and our oars keep time.

Self is the medium thro' which Judgment's ray Can seldom pass without being turned astray.

A Persian's heaven is easily made: 'Tis but black eyes and lemonade.