Life's Bloomy Flush Was Lost.

Some Hearts Are Hidden, Some Have Not A Heart.

Through The Sharp Air A Flaky Torrent Flies, Mocks The Slow Sight, And Hides The Gloomy Skies; The Fleecy Clouds Their Chilly Bosoms Bare, And Shed Their Substance On The Floating Air.

Old Peter Grimes Made Fishing His Employ; His Wife He Cabined With Him And His Boy, And Seemed That Life Laborious To Enjoy.

Void Of All Honor, Avaricious, Rash, The Daring Tribe Compound Their Boasted Trash Tincture Of Syrup, Lotion, Drop, Or Pill; All Tempt The Sick To Trust The Lying Bill.

What Is A Church? Let Truth And Reason Speak, They Would Reply, "the Faithful, Pure And Meek, From Christian Folds, The One Selected Race, Of All Professions, And In Every Place.