Here Let Me Sit In Sorrow For

Error Is Always Talkative.

Who Mix'd Reason With Pleasure, And Wisdom With Mirth: If He Had Any Faults, He Has Left Us In Doubt.

This Is That Eloquence The Ancients Represented As Lightning, Bearing Down Every Opposer; This The Power Which Has Turned Whole Assemblies Into Astonishment, Admiration And Awe- - That Is Described By The Torrent, The Flame, And Every Other Instance Of Irresistible Impetuosity.

Conscience Is A Coward, And Those Faults It Has Not Strength Enough To Prevent It Seldom Has Justice Enough To Accuse.

Near Yonder Copse, Where Once The Garden Smil'd, And Still Where Many A Garden Flower Grows Wild, There, Where A Few Torn Shrubs The Place Disclose, The Village Preacher's Modest Mansion Rose. A Man He Was To All The Country Dear, And Passing Rich With Forty Pounds A Year; Remote From Town's He Ran His Godly Race, Nor E'er Had Chang'd Nor Wish'd To Change His Place; Unskilful He To Fawn, Or Seek For Power, By Doctrines Fashion'd To The Varying Hour; Far Other Aims His Heart Had Learn'd To Prize. More Bent To Raise The Wretched Than To Rise.