Of Calling Shapes, And Beck'ning Shadows Dire,

Flowers Of All Hue, And Without Thorn The Rose.

Nor Think Thou With Wind Of æry Threats To Awe Whom Yet With Deeds Thou Canst Not.

The Leaf Was Darkish, And Had Prickles On It, But In Another Country, As He Said, Bore A Bright Golden Flow'r, But Not In This Soil; Unknown, And Like Esteem'd, And The Dull Swain Treads On It Daily With His Clouted Shoon.

Few Sometimes May Know, When Thousands Err.

Her Silent Course Advance With Inoffensive Pace, That Spinning Sleeps On Her Soft Axle.