The Still Small Voice Is Wanted.

But What Is Truth? 'twas Pilate's Question Put To Truth Itself, That Deign'd Him No Reply.

Most Satirists Are Indeed A Public Scourge; Their Mildest Physic Is A Farrier's Purge; Their Acrid Temper Turns, As Soon As Stirr'd, The Milk Of Their Good Purpose All To Curd. Their Zeal Begotten, As Their Works Rehearse, By Lean Despair Upon An Empty Purse.

God Moves In A Mysterious Way His Wonders To Perform; He Plants His Footsteps In The Sea, And Rides Upon The Storm. Deep In Unfathomable Mines Of Never Failing Skill He Treasures Up His Bright Designs, And Works His Sovereign Will. Ye Fearful Saints Fresh Courage Take, The Clouds Ye So Much Dread Are Big With Mercy, And Shall Break In Blessings On Your Head. Judge Not The Lord By Feeble Sense, But Trust Him For His Grace; Behind A Frowning Providence He Hides A Smiling Face.

An Inadvertent Step May Crush The Snail That Crawls At Evening In The Public Path. But He That Has Humanity, Forewarned, Will Turn Aside And Let The Reptile Live.

Slaves Cannot Breathe In England; If Their Lungs Receive Our Air, That Moment They Are Free; They Touch Our Country, And Their Shackles Fall.