A Vow Is A Snare For Sin

A Transition From An Author's Book To His Conversation Is Too Often Like An Entrance Into A Large City, After A Distant Prospect. Remotely, We See Nothing But Spires Of Temples And Turrets Of Palaces, And Imagine It The Residence Of Splendour, Grandeur, And Magnificence; But When We Have Passed The Gates, We Find It Perplexed With Narrow Passages, Disgraced With Despicable Cottages, Embarrassed With Obstructions, And Clouded With Smoke.

It Is The Quality Of Patriotism To Be Jealous And Watchful, To Observe All Secret Machinations, And To See Publick Dangers At A Distance. The True Lover Of His Country Is Ready To Communicate His Fears, And To Sound The Alarm, Whenever He Perceives The Approach Of Mischief. But He Sounds No Alarm, When There Is No Enemy; He Never Terrifies His Countrymen Till He Is Terrified Himself. The Patriotism, Therefore, May Be Justly Doubted Of Him, Who Professes To Be Disturbed By Incredibilities.

Then With No Throbs Of Fiery Pain, No Cold Gradations Of Decay, Death Broke At Once The Vital Chain, And Freed His Soul The Nearest Way.

Cruel With Guilt, And Daring With Despair, The Midnight Murderer Bursts The Faithless Bar; Invades The Sacred Hour Of Silent Rest And Leaves, Unseen, A Dagger In Your Breast.

A Man Who Uses A Great Many Words To Express His Meaning Is Like A Bad Marksman Who, Instead Of Aiming A Single Stone At An Object, Takes Up A Handful And Throws At It In Hopes He May Hit.