Our Farmers Round, Well Pleased With Constant

Virtues Neglected Then, Adored Become, And Graces Slighted, Blossom On The Tomb.

Hence, In These Times, Untouch'd The Pages Lie, And Slumber Out Their Immortality.

Say, Ye Oppress'd By Some Fantastic Woes, Some Jarring Nerve That Baffles Your Repose; Who Press The Downy Couch, While Slaves Advance With Timid Eye, To Read The Distant Glance; Who With Sad Prayers The Weary Doctor Tease, To Name The Nameless Ever-new Disease; Who With Mock Patience Dire Complaints Endure, Which Real Pain And That Alone Can Cure; How Would Ye Bear In Real Pain To Lie, Despised, Neglected, Left Alone To Die? How Would Ye Bear To Draw Your Latest Breath, Where All That's Wretched Paves The Way For Death?

To Show The World What Long Experience Gains, Requires Not Courage, Though It Calls For Pains; But At Life's Outset To Inform Mankind Is A Bold Effort Of A Valiant Mind.

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.