Scatter Plenty O'er A Smiling

And Hie Him Home, At Evening's Close, To Sweet Repast And Calm Repose.

Rich With The Spoils Of Time.

To Contemplation's Sober Eye. / Such Is The Race Of Man.

The Applause Of List'ning Senates To Command, The Threats Of Pain And Ruin To Despise, To Scatter Plenty O'er A Smiling Land, And Read Their History In A Nation's Eyes.

The Language Of The Age Is Never The Language Of Poetry, Except Among The French, Whose Verse, Where The Thought Or Image Does Not Support It, Differs In Nothing From Prose.