Hands That The Rod Of

Where'er The Oak's Thick Branches Stretch A Broader Browner Shade; Where'er The Rude And Moss-grown Beech O'er-canopies The Glade, Beside Some Water's Rushy Brink With Me The Muse Shall Sit, And Think.

From Helicon's Harmonious Springs A Thousand Rills Their Mazy Progress Take.

Sorrow's Faded Form, And Solitude Behind.

Scatter Plenty O'er A Smiling Land.

To Each His Suff'rings: All Are Men, / Condemn'd Alike To Groan, / The Tender For Another's Pain; / Th' Unfeeling For His Own.