This world is very odd we see, We do not comprehend it; But in one fact we all agree, God won't, and we can't mend it

This world is very odd we see, We do not comprehend it; But in one fact we all agree, God won't, and we can't mend it

And almost every one, when age, Disease, or sorrows strike him, Inclines to think there is a God, Or something very like him

Grace is given of god, but knowledge is bought in the market

What voice did on my spirit fall, Peschiera, when thy bridge I crost? 'Tis better to have fought and lost That never to have fought at all!

Where lies the land, to which the ship would go?
Far, far ahead is all, her seamen know.
And where the land she travels from?
Away, far far behind, is all that they can say.