And Thou, so pleased, with her uniting, To charm the soul-storm into peace, Sweet TOIL, in toil itself delighting, That more it labored, less could cease; Tho' but by grains thou aid'st the pile The vast Eternity uprears, At least thou strik'st from Time the while Life's debtthe minutes, days and years.

Ye others round him straight the turf uprear; As for our sires was done of yore, An oblong square delve ye once more.