Let Indians, and the gay, like Indians, fond
Of feathered fopperies, the sun adore:
Darkness has more divinity for me;
It strikes thought inward; it drives back the soul
To settle on herself, our point supreme.
There lies our theater: there sits our judge.
Darkness the curtain drops o'er life's dull scene:
'T is the kind hand of Providence stretched out
'Twixt man and vanity; 't is reason's reign,
And virtue's too; these tutelary shades