How Vast A Memory Has

Drink Is The Feast Of Reason And The Flow Of Soul.

But Those Who Cannot Write, And Those Who Can, All Rhyme, And Scrawl, And Scribble, To A Man.

I Think A Good Deal May Be Said To Extenuate The Fault Of Bad Poets. What We Call A Genius, Is Hard To Be Distinguish'd By A Man Himself, From A Strong Inclination: And If His Genius Be Ever So Great, He Can Not At First Discover It Any Other Way, Than By Giving Way To That Prevalent Propensity Which Renders Him The More Liable To Be Mistaken.

No Silver Saints, By Dying Misers Giv'n, Here Brib'd The Rage Of Ill-requited Heav'n; But Such Plain Roofs As Piety Could Raise, And Only Vocal With The Maker's Praise.

Hope Springs Eternal In The Human Breast; Man Never Is, But Always To Be Blest. The Soul, Uneasy, And Confin'd From Home, Rest And Expatiates In A Life To Come. Lo, The Poor Indian! Whose Untutor'd Mind Sees God In Clouds, Or Hears Him In The Wind; His Soul Proud Science Never Taught To Stray Far As The Solar Walk Or Milky Way; Yet Simple Nature To His Hope Has Giv'n, Behind The Cloud-topp'd Hill, An Humbler Heav'n.