Of Her Scorn The Maid Repented, And

Child Of Mortality, Whence Comest Thou? Why Is Thy Countenance Sad, And Why Are Thine Eyes Red With Weeping?

Young Gentlemen, Who Are To Display Their Knowledge To The World, Should Have Every Motive Of Emulation, Should Be Formed Into Regular Classes, Should Read And Dispute Together, Should Have All The Honors, And, If One May Say So, The Pomp Of Learning Set Before Them, To Call Up Their Ardor. It Is Their Business, And They Should Apply To It As Such.

There Is A Land, Where The Roses Are Without Thorns, Where The Flowers Are Not Mixed With Brambles. In That Land, There Is Eternal Spring, And Light Without Any Cloud. The Tree Of Life Groweth In The Midst Thereof; Rivers Of Pleasures Are There, And Flowers That Never Fade. Myriads Of Happy Spirits Are There, And Surround The Throne Of God With A Perpetual Hymn. The Angels With Their Golden Harps Sing Praises Continually, And The Cherubim Fly On Wings Of Fire! This Country Is Heaven.

We Neither Laugh Alone, Nor Weep Alone, Why Then Should We Pray Alone?

So Fades A Summer Cloud Away; So Sinks The Gale When Storms Are O'er; So Gently Shuts The Eye Of Day; So Dies A Wave Along The Shore.