Lo! Where The Moon Along The Sky Sails With Her Happy Destiny; Oft Is She Hid From Mortal Eye Or Dimly Seen, But When The Clouds Asunder Fly How Bright Her Mien! Far Different We, A Froward Race, Thousands Though Rich In Fortune'S Grace With Cherished Sullenness Of Pace Their Way Pursue, Ingrates Who Wear A Smileless Face The Whole Year Through. If Kindred Humours E'Er Would Make My Spirit Droop For Drooping'S Sake, From Fancy Following In Thy Wake, Bright Ship Of Heaven! A Counter Impulse Let Me Take And Be Forgiven.