England, With All Thy Faults I Love

How Sweet, How Passing Sweet, Is Solitude! But Grant Me Still A Friend In My Retreat, Whom I May Whisper, Solitude Is Sweet.

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

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

A Christian's Wit Is Offensive Light, A Beam That Aids, But Never Grieves The Sight; Vig'rous In Age As In The Flush Of Youth, 'tis Always Active On The Side Of Truth.

Fanaticism, The False Fire Of An Overheated Mind.