Lo, the poor Indian, whose untutored mind Sees God in the clouds and hears Him in the wind. --Pope.
What means this gathering multitude, Upon thy shores, O, Galilee, As various as the billows rude
There is a cliff, no matter where, Which softened by the agencies Of rain, exposure to the air,
Pity the child who never feels A mother's fond caress; That childish smile a void conceals
There is the warm, congenial smile, Benign, and honest, too, Free from deception, fraud, and guile;
I passed along a mountain road, Which led me through a wooded glen, Remote from dwelling or abode
Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey, Where wealth accumulates and men decay. --Goldsmith.