No man is happy, till he thinks, on earth
There breathes not a more happy than himself:
Then envy dies, and love o’erflows on all;
And love o’erflowing makes an angel here.
Such angels, all, entitled to repose
On Him who governs fate. Though tempest frowns, 940
Though nature shakes, how soft to lean on Heaven!
To lean on Him, on whom archangels lean!
With inward eyes, and silent as the grave,
They stand, collecting every beam of thought,