A Glory Gilds The Sacred Page, Majestic

Man In Society Is Like A Flow'r, Blown In Its Native Bed. 'tis There Alone His Faculties Expanded In Full Bloom Shine Out, There Only Reach Their Proper Use.

An Epigram Is But A Feeble Thing - With Straw In Tail, Stuck There By Way Of Sting.

Some Men Make Gain A Fountain, Whence Proceeds A Stream Of Liberal And Heroic Deeds; The Swell Of Pity, Not To Be Confined Within The Scanty Limits Of The Mind.

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

Some To The Fascination Of A Name, Surrender Judgment Hoodwinked.