Child Of Mortality, Whence Comest

It Would Be Difficult To Determine Whether The Age Is Growing Better Or Worse; For I Think Our Plays Are Growing Like Sermons, And Our Sermons Like Plays.

Of Her Scorn The Maid Repented, And The Shepherd - Of His Love.

Fair Venus Shines Even In The Eve Of Day, With Sweetest Beam Propitious Shines, And Shakes A Trembling Flood Of Softened Radiance From Her Dewy Locks.

Forgotten Rimes, And College Themes, Worm-eaten Plans, And Embryo Schemes; A Mass Of Heterogeneous Matter. A Chaos Dark, Nor Land Nor Water.

There Is A Land, Where The Roses Are Without Thorns, Where The Flowers Are Not Mixed With Brambles. In That Land, There Is Eternal Spring, And Light Without Any Cloud. The Tree Of Life Groweth In The Midst Thereof; Rivers Of Pleasures Are There, And Flowers That Never Fade. Myriads Of Happy Spirits Are There, And Surround The Throne Of God With A Perpetual Hymn. The Angels With Their Golden Harps Sing Praises Continually, And The Cherubim Fly On Wings Of Fire! This Country Is Heaven.