God Made The Country, And Man Made

Even In The Stifling Bosom Of The Town, A Garden, In Which Nothing Thrives, Has Charms That Soothes The Rich Possessor; Much Consol'd, That Here And There Some Sprigs Of Mournful Mint, Or Nightshade, Or Valerian, Grace The Well He Cultivates.

Satan Trembles When He Sees The Weakest Saint Upon Their Knees.

Slaves Cannot Breathe In England; If Their Lungs Receive Our Air, That Moment They Are Free; They Touch Our Country, And Their Shackles Fall.

Heaven Speed The Canvas, Gallantly Unfurl'd, To Furnish And Accommodate A World, To Give The Pole The Produce Of The Sun, And Knit The Unsocial Climates Into One.

Solitude, Seeming A Sanctuary, Proves A Grave; A Sepulchre In Which The Living Lie, Where All Good Qualities Grow Sick And Die