God Made Thee Perfect, Not Immutable.

Or Bid The Soul Of Orpheus Sing Such Notes As, Warbled To The String, Drew Iron Tears Down Pluto's Cheek.

Time Is The Subtle Thief Of Youth.

If The Will, Which In The Law Of Our Nature, Were Withdrawn From Our Memory, Fancy, Understanding, And Reason, No Other Hell Could Equal, For A Spiritual Being, What We Should Then Feel From The Anarchy Of Our Powers. It Would Be Conscious Madness,--a Horrid Thought!

Virtue May Be Assailed, But Never Hurt, Surprised By Unjust Force, But Not Inthralled; Yea, Even That Which Mischief Meant Most Harm Shall In The Happy Trial Prove Most Glory.

I Must Not Quarrel With The Will Of Highest Dispensation, Which Herein, Haply Had Ends Above My Reach To Know.