What Peaceful Hours I Once

Call'd To The Temple Of Impure Delight He That Abstains, And He Alone, Does Right. If A Wish Wander That Way, Call It Home; He Cannot Long Be Safe Whose Wishes Roam.

A Glory Gilds The Sacred Page, Majestic Like The Sun, It Gives A Light To Every Age, It Gives, But Borrows None.

Forgot The Blush That Virgin Fears Impart To Modest Cheeks, And Borrowed One From Art.

They Best Can Judge A Poet's Worth, Who Oft Themselves Have Known The Pangs Of A Poetic Birth By Labours Of Their Own.

Thus Happiness Depends, As Nature Shows, Less On Exterior Things Than Most Suppose.