All Desire The Gifts Of God, But

The Soul On Earth Is An Immortal Guest, Compelled To Starve At An Unreal Feast: A Spark, Which Upward Tends By Nature's Force: A Stream Diverted From Its Parent Source; A Drop Dissever'd From The Boundless Sea; A Moment, Parted From Eternity; A Pilgrim Panting For The Rest To Come; An Exile, Anxious For His Native Home.

The Uncandid Censurer Always Picks Out The Worst Man Of A Class, And Then Confidently Produces Him As Being A Fair Specimen Of It.

Luxury! More Perilous To Youth Than Storms Or Quicksand, Poverty Or Chains.

We Contrive To Make Revenge Itself Look Like Religion. We Call Down Thunder On Many A Head Under Pretence, That Those On Whom We Invoke It Are God's Enemies, When Perhaps We Invoke It Because They Are Ours.

The Keen Spirit Seizes The Prompt Occasion, Makes The Thought Start Into Instant Action, And At Once Plans And Performs, Resolves And Executes!