And Die Of Nothing But

Bear, Like The Turk, No Brother Near The Throne.

Soft Is The Strain When Zephyr Gently Blows.

The Spider's Touch, How Exquisitely Fine! Feels At Each Thread, And Lives Along The Line.

And Empty Heads Console With Empty Sound.

Hope Springs Eternal In The Human Breast; Man Never Is, But Always To Be Blest. The Soul, Uneasy, And Confin'd From Home, Rest And Expatiates In A Life To Come. Lo, The Poor Indian! Whose Untutor'd Mind Sees God In Clouds, Or Hears Him In The Wind; His Soul Proud Science Never Taught To Stray Far As The Solar Walk Or Milky Way; Yet Simple Nature To His Hope Has Giv'n, Behind The Cloud-topp'd Hill, An Humbler Heav'n.