Nor ever feel the sting of woe;
Contented with the humblest lot—
Happy, though in the meanest cot.
ADDRESS TO THE DEITY.
WRITTEN AT THE AGE OF ELEVEN.
The infant muse, Jehovah! would aspire
To swell the adoration of the lyre:
Source of all good! oh, teach my voice to sing
Thee, from whom Nature’s genuine beauties spring;
Thee, God of truth, omnipotent and wise,