He is a freeman, whom the truth makes free,
And all are slaves beside. There's not a chain,
That vengeful foes, confed'rate for his harm,
Can wind around him, but he casts it off
With as much ease as Samson, his green withes
He looks abroad into the varied field
Of nature, and though poor, perhaps, compared
With those whose mansions glitter in his sight,
Calls the delightful scenery all his own;
His are the mountains, and the valleys his,
And I the re-splendent rivers. His to enjoy
With a propriety that none can feel,
But who with filial confidence inspired,
Can lift to heaven an unpresumptuous eye,
And smiling say, 'My Father made them all.'