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Tis Providence Alone Secures In Every Change Both Mine And Yours.

-William Cowper

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Tis Providence Alone Secures

William Cowper

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Tis Providence Alone Secures In Every Change Both Mine And Yours.

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And Diff'ring Judgments Serve But To Declare That Truth Lies Somewhere, If We Knew But Where.

Great Contest Follows, And Much Learned Dust Involves The Combatants; Each Claiming Truth, And Truth Disclaiming Both.

How Much A Dunce That Has Been Sent To Roam, Excels A Dunce That Has Been Kept At Home.

When I Thinkof My Own Native Land, In A Moment I Seem To Be There; But Alas! Recollection At Hand Soon Hurries Me Back To Despair.

... She, That Will With Kittens Jest, Should Bear A Kitten's Joke.

Blest Be The Art That Can Immortalize,--the Art That Baffles Time's Tyrannic Claim To Quench It.

A Life Of Ease Is A Difficult Pursuit.

Absence Of Occupation Is Not Rest.

A Life All Turbulence And Noise May Seem To Him That Leads It Wise And To Be Praised, But Wisdom Is A Pearl With Most Success Sought In Still Waters.

Could He With Reason Murmur At His Case, Himself Sole Author Of His Own Disgrace?

He That Has Seen Both Sides Of Fifty Has Lived To Little Purpose If He Has No Other Views Of The World Than He Had When He Was Much Younger.

A Heretic, My Dear Sir, Is A Fellow Who Disagrees With You Regarding Something Neither Of You Knows Anything About.

Would I Describe A Preacher, I Would Express Him Simple, Grave, Sincere; In Doctrine Uncorrupt; In Language Plain, And Plain In Manner; Decent, Solemn, Chaste, And Natural In Gesture; Much Impress'd Himself, As Conscious Of His Awful Charge, And Anxious Mainly That The Flock He Feeds May Feel It Too; Affectionate In Look, And Tender In Address, As Well Becomes A Messenger Of Grace To Guilty Men.

Trials Make The Promise Sweet, Trials Give New Life To Prayer; Trials Bring Me To His Feet, Lay Me Low, And Keep Me There.

What Is There In The Vale Of Lifehalf So Delightful As A Wife;when Friendship, Love And Peace Combineto Stamp The Marriage-bond Divine?

Friendship Love

It Chills My Blood To Hear The Blest Supreme Rudely Appealed To On Each Trifling Theme.

Built God A Church And Laughed His Word To Scorn.

He Is The Freeman Whom The Truth Makes Free, And All Are Slaves Besides.

And Hast Thou Sworn On Every Slight Pretence, Till Perjuries Are Common As Bad Pence, While Thousands, Careless Of The Damning Sin, Kiss The Book's Outside, Who Ne'er Look'd Within?

The Innocent Seldom Find An Uncomfortable Pillow.

The Man That Hails You Tom Or Jack, And Proves By Thumps Upon Your Back How He Esteems Your Merit, Is Such A Friend, That One Had Need Be Very Much His Friend Indeed To Pardon Or To Bear It.

No Wild Enthusiast Could Rest, Till Half The World Like Him Was Possessed.

There Is A Pleasure In Poetic Pains / Which Only Poets Know.

I Am Out Of Humanity's Reach.i Must Finish My Journey Alone,never Hear The Sweet Music Of Speech;i Start At The Sound Of My Own.

Gardening Imparts An Organic Perspective On The Passage Of Time.

There Is A Mixture Of Evil In Everything We Do; Indulgence Encourages Us To Encroach, While We Crabbe Exercise The Rights Of Children, We Become Childish.

Good Sense, Good Health, Good Conscience, And Good Fame,--all These Belong To Virtue, And All Prove That Virtue Has A Title To Your Love.

The Parson Knows Enough Who Knows A Duke.

Mansions Once Knew Their Own Masters, And Laborious Hinds, That Had Surviv'd The Father, Serv'd The Son. Now The Legitimate And Rightful Lord Is But A Transient Guest, Newly Arrived, And Soon To Be Supplanted. He That Saw His Patrimonial Timber Cast Its Leaf, Sells The Last Scantling, And Transfers The Price To Some Shrewd Sharper Ere It Buds Again. Estates Are Landscapes, Gazed Upon Awhile, Then Advertised And Auctioneer'd Away.

He Finds His Fellow Guilty Of A Skin Not Color'd Like His Own, And Having Pow'r T' Enforce The Wrong, For Such A Worthy Cause Dooms And Devotes Him As His Lawful Prey.

She That Asks Her Dear Five Hundred Friends, Contemns Them All, And Hates Their Coming.

Books Are Not Seldom Talismans And Spells.

And The Tear That Is Wiped With A Little Address, May Be Follow'd Perhaps By A Smile.

Time, As He Passes Us, Has A Dove's Wing, Unsoil'd, And Swift, And Of A Silken Sound.

How Shall I Speak Thee, Or Thy Power Address Thou God Of Our Idolatry, The Press. . . . . Like Eden's Dead Probationary Tree, Knowledge Of Good And Evil Is From Thee.

O Winter, Ruler Of The Inverted Year!

The Frenchman, Easy, Debonair, And Brisk, Give Him His Lass, His Fiddle, And His Frisk, Is Always Happy, Reign Whoever May, And Laughs The Sense Of Mis'ry Far Away.

If A Great Man Struggling With Misfortunes Is A Noble Object, A Little Man That Despises Them Is No Contemptible One.

The Proud Are Ever Most Provoked By Pride.

Religion! What Treasure Untold Resides In That Heavenly Word!

Strange As It May Seem, The Most Ludicrous Lines I Ever Wrote Have Been Written In The Saddest Mood.

No One Was Ever Scolded Out Of Their Sins.

Judge Not The Lord By Feeble Sense, But Trust Him For His Grace; Behind A Frowning Providence He Hides A Smiling Face.

Ever Let The Fancy Roam, Pleasure Never Is At Home.

Some People Are More Nice Than Wise.

Great Offices Will Have Great Talents.

England With All Thy Faults, I Love Thee Still-- My Country! And, While Yet A Nook Is Left Where English Minds And Manners May Be Found, Shall Be Constrained To Love Thee.

Religion, If In Heavenly Truths Attired, Needs Only To Be Seen To Be Admired.

Sacred Interpreter Of Human Thought, How Few Respect Or Use Thee As They Ought! But All Shall Give Account Of Every Wrong, Who Dare Dishonor Or Defile The Tongue; Who Prostitute It In The Cause Of Vice, Or Sell Their Glory At A Market-price!

Accomplishments Have Taken Virtue's Place, And Wisdom Falls Before Exterior Grace.

Where Men Of Judgment Creep And Feel Their Way, The Positive Pronounce Without Dismay.

Ceremony Leads Her Bigots Forth, Prepared To Fight For Shadows Of No Worth. While Truths, On Which Eternal Things Depend, Can Hardly Find A Single Friend.

Oh To Have A Lodge In Some Vast Wilderness. Where Rumors Of Oppression And Deceit, Of Unsuccessful And Successful Wars May Never Reach Me Anymore.

A Fretful Temper Will Divide The Closest Knot That May Be Tied, By Ceaseless Sharp Corrosion; A Temper Passionate And Fierce May Suddenly Your Joys Disperse At One Immense Explosion.

Poor England! Thou Art A Devoted Deer, Beset With Every Ill But That Of Fear. The Nations Hunt; All Mock Thee For A Prey; They Swarm Around Thee, And Thou Stand'st At Bay.

'tis Liberty Alone That Gives The Flower Of Fleeting Life Its Lustre And Perfume; And We Are Weeds Without It.

Variety's The Very Spice Of Life, That Gives It All Its Flavor.

The Bird That Flutters Least Is Longest On The Wing.

Strength May Wield The Ponderous Spade, May Turn The Clod, And Wheel The Compost Home; But Elegance, Chief Grace The Garden Shows, And Most Attractive, Is The Fair Result Of Thought, The Creature Of A Polished Mind.

There Is In Souls A Sympathy With Sounds: And As The Mind Is Pitch'd The Ear Is Pleased With Melting Airs, Or Martial, Brisk Or Grave; Some Chord In Unison With What We Hear Is Touch'd Within Us, And The Heart Replies.

England, With All Thy Faults I Love Thee Still, My Country!

Toil For The Brave! The Brave That Are No More.

Alas! If My Best Friend, Who Laid Down His Life For Me, Were To Remember All The Instances In Which I Have Neglected Him, And To Plead Them Against Me In Judgment, Where Should I Hide My Guilty Head In The Day Of Recompense? I Will Pray, Therefore, For Blessings On My Friends, Even Though They Cease To Be So, And Upon My Enemies, Though They Continue Such.

We Sacrifice To Dress Till Household Joys And Comforts Cease. Dress Drains Our Cellar Dry, And Keeps Our Larder Lean.

They Best Can Judge A Poet's Worth, Who Oft Themselves Have Known The Pangs Of A Poetic Birth By Labours Of Their Own.

Fate Steals Along With Silent Tread, Found Oftenest In What Least We Dread; Frowns In The Storm With Angry Brow, But In The Sunshine Strikes The Blow.

God Made Bees, And Bees Made Honey, God Made Man, And Man Made Money, Pride Made The Devil, And The Devil Made Sin; So God Made A Cole-pit To Put The Devil In.

Manner Is All In All, Whate'er Is Writ,the Substitute For Genius, Sense, And Wit.

I Would Not Enter On My List Of Friends (though Graced With Polished Manners And Fine Sense, Yet Wanting Sensibility) The Man Who Needlessly Sets Foot Upon A Worm.

Mercy To Him That Shows It, Is The Rule.

In The Vast, And The Minute, We See The Unambiguous Footsteps Of The God, Who Gives Its Lustre To An Insect's Wing And Wheels His Throne Upon The Rolling Worlds.

Is Base In Kind, And Born To Be A Slave.

In Indolent Vacuity Of Thought.

Skins May Differ, But Affection Dwells In White And Black The Same.

The Path Of Sorrow, And That Path Alone, Leads To The Land Where Sorrow Is Unknown.

A Lawyer's Dealings Should Be Just And Fair; Honesty Shines With Great Advantage There.

Tis Pleasant, Through The Loopholes Of Retreat, To Peep At Such A World; To See The Stir Of The Great Babel, And Not Feel The Crowd.

Habits Are Soon Assumed; But When We Strive To Strip Them Off, 'tis Being Flayed Alive.

Sin Let Loose Speaks Punishment At Hand.

Unmissed But By His Dogs And By His Groom.

War's A Game, Which, Were Their Subjects Wise, Kings Would Not Play At.

I Pity Bashful Men, Who Feel The Pain Of Fancied Scorn And Undeserved Disdain, And Bear The Marks Upon A Blushing Face, Of Needless Shame, And Self-impos'd Disgrace.

He That Attends To His Interior Self, That Has A Heart, And Keeps It; Has A Mind That Hungers, And Supplies It; And Who Seeks A Social, Not A Dissipated Life, Has Business.

Riches Have Wings, And Grandeur Is A Dream.

Meditation Here May Think Down Hours To Moments. Here The Heart May Give A Useful Lesson To The Head And Learning Wiser Grow Without His Books.

I Seem Forsaken And Alone, / I Hear The Lion Roar; / And Every Door Is Shut But One, / And That Is Mercy's Door.

No Man Can Be A Patriot On An Empty Stomach.

Religion, Richest Favor Of The Skies.

The Darkest Day, If You Live Till Tomorrow, Will Have Passed Away.

And In That Hour, The Seeds Of Cruelty, That Since Have Swell'd To Such Gigantic And Enormous Growth, Were Sown In Human Nature's Fruitful Soil. Hence Date The Persecution And The Pain That Man Inflicts On All Inferior Kinds, Regardless Of Their Plaints.

Tis Providence Alone Secures In Every Change Both Mine And Yours.

Fancy, Like The Finger Of A Clock, Runs The Great Circuit, And Is Still At Home.

But, Oh, Thou Bounteous Giver Of All Good, Thou Art, Of All Thy Gifts, Thyself Thy Crown!

When From Soft Love Proceeds The Deep Distress, Ah! Why Forbid The Willing Tears To Flow?

A Story, In Which Native Humour Reigns, Is Often Useful, Always Entertains; A Graver Fact, Enlisted On Your Side, May Furnish Illustration, Well Applied; But Sedentary Weavers Of Long Tales Give Me The Fidgets, And My Patience Fails.

What Is It But A Map Of Busy Life, Its Fluctuations, And Its Vast Concerns?

Lights Of The World, And Stars Of Human Race.

Happy The Man Who Sees A God Employed In All The Good And Ills That Checker Life.

Still Ending, And Beginning Still.

Nature, Exerting An Unwearied Power, Forms, Opens, And Gives Scent To Every Flower; Spreads The Fresh Verdure Of The Field, And Leads The Dancing Naiads Through The Dewy Meads.

Reasoning At Every Step He Treads, Man Yet Mistakes His Way, Whilst Meaner Things, Whom Instinct Leads, Are Rarely Known To Stray.

Though Peace Be Made, Yet It's Interest That Keep Peace.

Friends, Books, A Garden, And Perhaps His Pen, Delightful Industry Enjoy'd At Home, An Nature, In Her Cultivated Trim Dress'ed To His Taste, Inviting Him Abroad - Can He Want Occupation Who Has These?

The Things That Mount The Rostrum With A Skip, And Then Skip Down Again, Pronounce A Text, Cry Hem; And Reading What They Never Wrote Just Fifteen Minutes, Huddle Up Their Work, And With A Well-bred Whisper Close The Scene!

Ye Fearful Saints Fresh Courage Take, The Clouds You So Much Dread Are Big With Mercy And Shall Break, With Blessings On Your Head

God Moves In A Mysterious Way His Wonders To Perform; He Plants His Footsteps In The Sea, And Rides Upon The Storm. Deep In Unfathomable Mines Of Never Failing Skill He Treasures Up His Bright Designs, And Works His Sovereign Will. Ye Fearful Saints Fresh Courage Take, The Clouds Ye So Much Dread Are Big With Mercy, And Shall Break In Blessings On Your Head. Judge Not The Lord By Feeble Sense, But Trust Him For His Grace; Behind A Frowning Providence He Hides A Smiling Face.

Absence Of Proof Is Not Proof Of Absence.

This Cabin, Mary, In My Sight Appears, Built As It Has Been In Our Waning Years, A Rest Afforded To Our Weary Feet, Preliminary To - The Last Retreat.

Nature Is A Good Name For An Effect Whose Cause Is God.

Be It A Weakness, It Deserves Some Praise, We Love The Play-place Of Our Early Days; The Scene Is Touching, And The Heart Is Stone, That Feels Not At That Sight, And Feels At None.

If Hindrances Obstruct The Way, Thy Magnanimity Display. And Let Thy Strength Be Seen: But O, If Fortune Fill Thy Sail With More Than A Propitious Gale, Take Half Thy Canvas In.

Sends Nature Forth The Daughter Of The Skies... To Dance On Earth, And Charm All Human Eyes.

Pleasure Is Labour Too, And Tires As Much.

A Noisy Man Is Always In The Right.

It Is A Terrible Thought, That Nothing Is Ever Forgotten; That Not An Oath Is Ever Uttered That Does Not Continue To Vibrate Through All Times, In The Wide Spreading Current Of Sound; That Not A Prayer Is Lisped, That Its Record Is Not To Be Found St

Knowledge Is Proud That It Knows So Much; Wisdom Is Humble That It Knows No More.

Give What Thou Canst, Without Thee We Are Poor; And With Thee Rich, Take What Thou Wilt Away.

There Is Mercy In Every Place. And Mercy, Encouraging Thought Gives Even Affliction A Grace And Reconciles Man To His Lot.

Pleasure Admitted In Undue Degree, Enslaves The Will, Nor Leaves The Judgment Free.

Not A Flower But Shows Some Touch, In Freckle, Streak Or Stain, Of His Unrivall'd Pencil. He Inspires Their Balmy Odors, And Imparts Their Hues, And Bathes Their Eyes With Nectar, And Includes In Grains As Countless As The Seaside Sands, The Forms With Which He Sprinkles All The Earth Happy Who Walks With Him!

There Goes The Parson, Oh Illustrious Spark! And There, Scarce Less Illustrious, Goes The Clerk.

But What Is Truth? 'twas Pilate's Question Put To Truth Itself, That Deign'd Him No Reply.

As If The World And They Were Hand And Glove.

Without One Friend, Above All Foes, Britannia Gives The World Repose.

Misses! The Tale That I Relate This Lesson Seems To Carry-- Choose Not Alone A Proper Mate, But Proper Time To Marry.

No Traveler E'er Reached That Blest Abode Who Found Not Thorns And Briers In His Road.

Detested Sport, That Owes Its Pleasures To Another's Pain.

The Slaves Of Custom And Established Mode, With Pack-horse Constancy We Keep The Road Crooked Or Straight, Through Quags Or Thorny Dells, True To The Jingling Of Our Leader's Bells.

With Spots Quadrangular Of Diamond Form, Ensanguined Hearts, Clubs Typical Of Strife, And Spades, The Emblems Of Untimely Graves.

The Cares Of Today Are Seldom Those Of Tomorrow, And When We Lie Down At Night We May Safely Say To Most Of Our Troubles, "ye Have Done Your Worst, And We Shall See You No More."

Absence Of Occupation Is Not Rest; A Mind Quite Vacant Is A Mind Distressed.

[my Kitten] Is Dressed In A Tortoise-shell Suit, And I Know You Will Delight In Her.

I Crown Thee King Of Intimate Delights, Fire-side Enjoyments, Home-born Happiness, And All The Comforts That The Lowly Roof Of Undisturb'd Retirement, And The Hours Of Long Uninterrupted Ev'ning, Know.

Made Poetry A Mere Mechanic Art.

Knowledge, A Rude Unprofitable Mass, The Mere Materials With Which Wisdom Builds, Till Smoothed And Squared And Fitted To Its Place, Does But Encumber Whom It Seems To Enrich. Knowledge Is Proud That He Has Learned So Much; Wisdom Is Humble That He Knows No More.

The Earth Was Made So Various, That The Mind Of Desultory Man, Studious Of Change, And Pleased With Novelty, Might Be Indulged.

A Moral, Sensible, And Well-bred Manwill Not Affront Me, And No Other Can.

Who Loves A Garden Loves A Greenhouse Too.

Greece, Sound, Thy Homer's, Rome Thy Virgil's Name, But England's Milton Equals Both In Fame.

How! Leap Into The Pit Our Life To Save? To Save Our Life Leap All Into The Grave.

But Many A Crime Deemed Innocent On Earth Is Registered In Heaven; And These No Doubt Have Each Their Record, With A Curse Annex'd.

But War's A Game, Which, Were Their Subjects Wise, Kings Should Not Play At. Nations Would Do Well To Extort Their Truncheons From The Puny Hands Of Heroes, Whose Infirm And Baby Minds Are Gratified With Mischief, And Who Spoil, Because Men Suffer It, Their Toy The World.

When Scandal Has New-minted An Old Lie, Or Tax'd Invention For A Fresh Supply, 'tis Call'd A Satire, And The World Appears Gathering Around It With Erected Ears; A Thousand Names Are Toss'd Into The Crowd, Some Whisper'd Softly, And Some Twang'd Aloud, Just As The Sapience Of An Author's Brain, Suggests It Safe Or Dangerous To Be Plain.

A Self-made Man? Yes, And One Who Worships His Creator.

The Kindest And The Happiest Pair Will Find Occasion To Forbear; And Something, Every Day They Live, To Pity, And Perhaps Forgive.

Folly Ends Where Genuine Hope Begins.

What We Admire We Praise; And When We Praise, Advance It Into Notice, That Its Worth Acknowledged, Others May Admire It Too.

Ages Elapsed Ere Homer's Lamp Appear'd, And Ages Ere The Mantuan Swan Was Heard: To Carry Nature Lengths Unknown Before, To Give A Milton Birth, Ask'd Ages More.

Vice Stings Us Even In Our Pleasures, But Virtue Consoles Us Even In Our Pains.

The Dogs Did Bark, The Children Screamed, Up Flew The Windows All; And Every Soul Bawled Out, Well Done! As Loud As He Could Bawl.

The Beggarly Last Doit.

We Bear Our Shades About Us; Self-deprived Of Other Screen, The Thin Umbrella Spread, And Range An Indian Waste Without A Tree.

Events Of All Sorts Creep Or Fly Exactly As God Pleases.

Laugh At All You Trembled At Before.

It Is A General Rule Of Judgment, That A Mischief Should Rather Be Admitted Than An Inconvenience.

Misery Still Delights To Trace Its Semblance In Another's Case.

Nor Rural Sights Alone, But Rural Sounds, Exhilirate The Spirit, And Restore The Tone Of Languid Nature.

Man May Dismiss Compassion From His Heart, But God Never Will.

In Man Or Woman, But Far Most In Man, And Most Of All In Man That Ministers, And Serves The Altar, In My Soul I Loathe All Affectation. 'tis My Perfect Scorn: Object Of My Implacable Disgust.

Glory, Built On Selfish Principles, Is Shame And Guilt.

How Happy It Is To Believe, With A Steadfast Assurance, That Our Petitions Are Heard Even While We Are Making Them; And How Delightful To Meet With A Proof Of It In The Effectual And Actual Grant Of Them.

All We Behold Is Miracle.

Knowledge And Wisdom, Far From Being One, Have Oft-times No Connection. Knowledge Dwells In Heads Replete With Thoughts Of Other Men; Wisdom In Minds Attentive To Their Own.

When All Within Is Peace How Nature Seems To Smile Delights That Never Cease The Live-long Day Beguile

They Fix Attention, Heedless Of Your Pain, With Oaths Like Rivets Forced Into The Brain; And E'en When Sober Truth Prevails Throughout, They Swear It, Till Affirmance Breeds A Doubt.

Man Disavows, And Deity Disowns Me: Hell Might Afford My Miseries A Shelter; Therefore Hell Keeps Her Ever-hungry Mouths All Bolted Against Me.

But Oars Alone Can Ne'er Prevail To Reach The Distant Coast; The Breath Of Heaven Must Swell The Sail, Or All The Toil Is Lost.

Thus Happiness Depends, As Nature Shows, Less On Exterior Things Than Most Suppose.

God Never Meant That Man Should Scale The Heavens By Strides Of Human Wisdom. In His Works, Though Wondrous, He Commands Us In His Word To Seek Him Rather Where His Mercy Shines.

...so Let Us Welcome Peaceful Evening In.

Our Love Is Principle, And Has Its Root In Reason, Is Judicious, Manly, Free.

Learning Itself, Received Into A Mind By Nature Weak, Or Viciously Inclined, Serves But To Lead Philosophers Astray, Where Children Would With Ease Discern The Way.

Some Write A Narrative Of Wars And Feats, Of Heroes Little Known, And Call The Rant A History.

The Cares Of Today Are Seldom Those Of Tomorrow.

Truth Is The Golden Girdle Of The Globe.

The Spleen Is Seldom Felt Where Flora Reigns; The Low'ring Eye, The Petulance, The Frown, And Sullen Sadness, That O'ershade, Distort, And Mar The Face Of Beauty, When No Cause For Such Immeasurable Woe Appears; These Flora Banishes, And Gives The Fair Sweet Smiles, And Bloom Less Transient Than Her Own.

I Would Not Have A Slave To Till My Ground, To Carry Me, To Fan Me While I Sleep, And Tremble When I Wake, For All The Wealth That Sinews Bought And Sold Have Ever Earn'd.

Men Deal With Life As Children With Their Play, Who First Misuse, Then Cast Their Toys Away.

A Tale Should Be Judicious, Clear, Succinct; The Language Plain, And Incidents Well Link'd; Tell Not As New What Ev'ry Body Knows; And, New Or Old, Still Hasten To A Close.

The Man To Solitude Accustom'd Long, Perceives In Everything That Lives A Tongue; Not Animals Alone, But Shrubs And Trees Have Speech For Him, And Understood With Ease, After Long Drought When Rains Abundant Fall, He Hears The Herbs And Flowers Rejoicing All.

To Impute Our Recovery To Medicine, And To Carry Our View No Further, Is To Rob God Of His Honor, And Is Saying In Effect That He Has Parted With The Keys Of Life And Death, And, By Giving To A Drug The Power To Heal Us, Has Placed Our Lives Out Of His Own Reach.

Domestic Happiness, Thou Only Bliss Of Paradise That Has Surviv'd The Fall!

Elegant As Simplicity, And Warm As Ecstasy.

For When Was Public Virtue To Be Found Where Private Was Not?

Call'd To The Temple Of Impure Delight He That Abstains, And He Alone, Does Right. If A Wish Wander That Way, Call It Home; He Cannot Long Be Safe Whose Wishes Roam.

No Tree In All The Grove But Has Its Charms, Though Each Its Hue Peculiar.

The Bud May Have A Bitter Taste, But Sweet Will Be The Flower.

And, Of All Lies (be That One Poet's Boast) / The Lie That Flatters I Abhor The Most.

There Is In Souls A Sympathy With Sounds.

God Made The Country, And Man Made The Town.

My Soul Is Sick With Every Day's Report Of Wrong And Outrage With Which Earth Is Filled.

In A Fleshly Tomb, I Am Buried Above Ground.

Man On The Dubious Waves Of Error Toss'd.

I Am Monarch Of All I Survey, My Right There Is None To Dispute, From The Centre All Round To The Sea, I Am Lord Of The Fowl And The Brute.

How Soft The Music Of Those Village Bells, Falling At Interval Upon The Ear In Cadence Sweet; Now Dying All Away, Now Pealing Loud Again, And Louder Still, Clear And Sonorous, As The Gale Comes On! With Easy Force It Opens All The Cells Where Memory Slept.

Visits Are Insatiable Devourers Of Time, And Fit Only For Those Who, If They Did Not That, Would Do Nothing.

The Spirit Breathes Upon The Word And Brings The Truth To Sight.

He That Negotiates Between God And Man, As God's Ambassador, The Grand Concerns Of Judgment And Of Mercy, Should Beware Of Lightness In His Speech.

The Rich Are Too Indolent, The Poor Too Weak, To Bear The Insupportable Fatigue Of Thinking.

When One That Holds Communion With The Skies Has Fill'd His Urn Where These Pure Waters Rise, And Once More Mingles With Us Meaner Things, 'tis E'en As If An Angel Shook His Wings.

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