Reason, Or The Ratio Of All We

Thou Fair-hair'd Angel Of The Evening, Now, Whilst The Sun Rests On The Mountains, Light Thy Bright Torch Of Love; Thy Radiant Crown Put On, And Smile Upon Our Evening Bed!

O White-robed Angel, Guide My Timorous Hand To Write As On A Lofty Rock With Iron Pen The Words Of Truth, That All Who Pass May Read.

Man Was Made For Joy And Woe, And When This We Rightly Know Through The World We Safely Go. Joy And Woe Are Woven Fine, A Clothing For The Soul To Bind.

My Brother Starv'd Between Two Walls,his Children's Cry My Soul Appalls

Like A Fiend In A Cloud, With Howling Woe, After Night I Do Crowd, And With Night Will Go; I Turn My Back To The East, From Whence Comforts Have Increased; For Light Doth Seize My Brain With Frantic Pain.