A Glory Gilds The Sacred Page, Majestic

All Affectation; 'tis My Perfect Scorn; Object Of My Implacable Disgust.

Restraining Prayer, We Cease To Fight; Prayer Keeps The Christian's Armor Bright; And Satan Trembles When He Sees The Weakest Saint Upon His Knees.

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

To Follow Foolish Precedents, And Wink With Both Our Eyes, Is Easier Than To Think.

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