The Still Small Voice Of Gratitude.

Any Fool May Write A Most Valuable Book By Chance, If He Will Only Tell Us What He Heard And Saw With Veracity.

He Pass'd The Flaming Bounds Of Place And Time: The Living Throne, The Sapphire Blaze, Where Angels Tremble While They Gaze, He Saw; But Blasted With Excess Of Light, Closed His Eyes In Endless Night.

Low On His Funeral Couch He Lies!

We Frolic While 'tis May.

Man's Feeble Race What Ills Await! Labour, And Penury, The Racks Of Pain, Disease, And Sorrow's Weeping Train, And Death, Sad Refuge From The Storms Of Fate!