That All Men Would Be

Feel You The Barren Flattery Of A Rhyme? Can Poets Soothe You, When You Pine For Bread, By Winding Myrtle Round Your Ruin'd Shed?

When Winter Stern, His Gloomy Front Uprears, A Sable Void The Barren Earth Appears; The Meads No More Their Former Verdure Boast, Fast-bound Their Streams, And All Their Beauty Lost; The Herds, The Flocks, In Icy Garments Mourn, And Wildly Murmur For The Spring's Return; From Snow-topp'd Hills The Whirlwinds Keenly Blow, Howl Through The Woods, And Pierce The Vales Below, Through The Sharp Air A Flaky Torrent Flies, Mocks The Slow Sight, And Hides The Gloomy Skies.

Oh, Rather Give Me Commentators Plain, Who With No Deep Researches Vex The Brain; Who From The Dark And Doubtful Love To Run, And Hold Their Glimmering Tapers To The Sun.

Blest Be The Gracious Power, Who Taught Mankind To Stamp A Lasting Image Of The Mind! Beasts May Convey, And Tuneful Birds May Sing, Their Mutual Feelings, In The Opening Spring; But Man Alone Has Skill And Power To Send The Heart's Warm Dictates To The Distant Friend; 'tis His Alone To Please, Instruct, Advise Ages Remote, And Nations Yet To Rise.

Oh, Conscience! Conscience! Man's Most Faithful Friend, Him Canst Thou Comfort, Ease, Relieve, Defend; But If He Will Thy Friendly Checks Forego, Thou Art, Oh! Woe For Me, His Deadliest Foe!