How Soft The Music Of Those Village

His Wit Invites You By His Looks To Come, But When You Knock, It Never Is At Home.

I Am Out Of Humanity's Reach.i Must Finish My Journey Alone,never Hear The Sweet Music Of Speech;i Start At The Sound Of My Own.

The Statesman, Lawyer, Merchant, Man Of Trade Pants For The Refuge Of Some Rural Shade, Where All His Long Anxieties Forgot Amid The Charms Of A Sequester'd Spot, Or Recollected Only To Gild O'er And Add A Smile To What Was Sweet Before, He May Possess The Joys He Thinks He Sees, Lay His Old Age Upon The Lap Of Ease, Improve The Remnant Of His Wasted Span. And Having Lived A Trifler, Die A Man.

But Conversation, Choose What Theme We May, And Chiefly When Religion Leads The Way, Should Flow, Like Waters After Summer Show'rs, Not As If Raised By Mere Mechanic Powers.

I Would Not Have A Slave To Till My Ground, To Carry Me, To Fan Me While I Sleep, And Tremble When I Wake, For All The Wealth That Sinews Bought And Sold Have Ever Earn'd.